Three Gorges Dam
Page 1
Copyright © 2018 by Thomas V. Harris
All Rights Reserved
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Illustration by Mark Stutzman
This book has been self-published by Thomas V. Harris. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of the novel Three Gorges Dam© may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, or otherwise, including but not limited to photocopy, recording, or any information retrieval system or future means of reproducing text without the written permission of the author.
Published in the United States of America by Highland Lake Press
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Harris, Thomas V.
Three Gorges Dam
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-9915803-0-9
eISBN 978-1-5439239-0-2
1. China – Fiction. 2. Espionage – Fiction. 3. Muslims – Fiction. 4. Tsunamis –Fiction. 5. Earthquakes – Fiction. 6. Tibet – Fiction. 7. Mass Murder – Fiction. 8. Buddhists – Fiction. 9. Dams – Fiction. 10. Engineering – Fiction. I. Title
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Thanking my lucky stars
FOR
Marcia, Steve & Laura
AND
Ava, Charlie & Jake
Political power grows out of the barrel of a gun.
Mao Zedong
He who made kittens put snakes in the grass.
Ian Anderson
Ants can move even a mighty mountain.
Chinese proverb
Armor once invincible
Your beauty has deeply pierced
The vanquished profoundly grateful
His conqueror radiant and sweet
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
CHAPTER 1
THE MOTORCADE SLOWS as it nears the grandstand.
Two score deep, they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, banging into one another, waving little red flags. Thousands of people are overflowing onto the roadway to improve their views.
Beijing is once again ready for prime time.
China’s president is in the backseat of his limousine. Lao Ming is sitting between his chief of staff Jin Kai and secret service director Ren Chong. He turns to his left and asks his most trusted advisor, “If you hadn’t paid them, how many would’ve come?”
Jin Kai laughs. “The television cameras don’t care.”
Up ahead, a CNN anchor is interviewing a group of middle schoolers. The boys disregard their teacher’s admonition, run into the street, and salute the heavily armored limos. The president growls, “The children should be in school.”
“They can learn more here.”
“About what?”
“Blue sky. It hasn’t been this clear since the Olympics.”
“Only because I shut down our freeways and factories for a week. When the Americans leave, we’ll be back to business as usual. The sky will be darker than dirt.”
“Cheer up, Mr. President. Tonight you’ll be at the Hall of Purple Light celebrating a great victory.”
“The farewell dinner can’t come soon enough.”
“You’re tired. Next week you’ll see things differently. The summit has been a game changer. It’s shown the world we’ve overtaken the US.”
“Because we bark the loudest?”
“Declining their White House invitation was brilliant. You forced them to come here and meet our demands. Their president hasn’t said a word about human rights, Tibet, or our Muslim unrest.”
“Minor statecraft,” Lao says. “Nothing more.”
The chief of staff glances at his computer tablet. “You’re too modest. The Western media are overwhelmingly positive, and the TV numbers are huge.”
“Their ignorance isn’t a cure for our problems.”
The president asks Ren, “Are you still arguing with the Americans?” The secret service director is slow to respond. “I don’t have all day, General.”
“They won’t allow us inside their limos.”
“I don’t blame them. Is that all?”
“They complained about being excluded from our briefings.”
“Dammit, General. Big picture.”
“Everything is fine, sir.”
Jin interjects, “Speaking of the Americans, they’re asking for something more formal to take back to the US.”
“We agreed on a joint press release.”
“Their negotiators want more than that.”
“Define ‘more.’”
“They want us to sign an accord.”
“It would be meaningless.”
“Their president is having trouble at home. They want to pretend they accomplished something.”
“What’s in it for us?”
“Improving relations with our strongest adversary.”
“What do you recommend?” Lao asks.
“A white paper—something bland and insignificant.”
“Give me the first sentence.”
“We negotiated matters of mutual interest and had a successful summit.”
The presidents jousted over their competing economic interests. The most important involved the exchange rate between the dollar and the yuan, American access to Chinese markets, and protecting intellectual property. Their staffs traded proposals for a bilateral reduction of carbon emissions and a cyber cease-fire. The presidents finished with foreign policy matters. They haggled over the usual subjects: North Korea, Taiwan, and the Reds’ saber rattling in the East and South China Seas.
Lao listened to his American counterpart but said little. Today he is more animated. He waves his hand dismissively. “It’s not worth the effort. Tell them we’ll continue buying US Treasuries and finance their runaway deficits. They can print that in their newspapers.”
“Why antagonize them, Mr. President?”
“Then just put them off.”
“What should I say?”
“That I need more time.”
“Can’t we say something positive?”
“Only if they renounce their Taiwanese pu
ppets.”
“The Americans will never do that.”
“Then stop pestering me.”
The president shifts his weight and glances at the trailing limousine. He has requested redesigned state cars. Not because of safety considerations. They just embarrass the hell out of him. Former President Hu Jintao designed the FAW Hongqi fleet. That’s the only reason Lao hasn’t sent the retro-futuristic limos to the crusher.
General Ren is in charge of the requisition effort. Lao asks him, “When are you replacing the limousines?”
“The Standing Committee won’t authorize them.”
“Why not?”
“The chairman is afraid of the political repercussions.”
“They are such a blatant rip-off of the Phantom and DTS. We look like a banana republic.” Lao doesn’t mention the features that bother him most—the Flash Gordon headlights and Buck Rogers trim.
His chief of staff rejoins the conversation. “Mr. President, the general is aware of your feelings.”
“You know what they symbolize to Westerners.” When neither aide responds, the president grumps, “That we’re the knockoff capital of the world.”
Secret service matters are outside Jin’s portfolio. But he ends the bickering. “I’ll work things out.” Until today’s outburst, Lao hadn’t mentioned the state cars for several months. There were bigger issues on his plate.
Summit security is at the top of the president’s agenda.
Shortly after scheduling the talks, he discussed his concern with General Ren and counterintelligence director Wei Yaoting. Lao began the conversation. “The number of threats against their president is staggering.”
Wei replied, “They are coming from all over the world, including the US. A handful of groups have the capability to launch an attack.”
“I’m giving you a free hand.”
“Thank you, Mr. President.”
“I expect better-than-best security.”
“We’re going to ban all public gatherings.”
Lao cut Wei off. “Don’t burden me with the details.”
“Excuse me, sir. There is one thing I need to mention.”
“What are you waiting for? Get on with it.”
“I’m restricting travel from our western provinces.”
“How can we enforce something like that?”
“Imperfectly,” Wei conceded.
“The cost would be staggering.”
“So are the risks.”
“Are you on board with that, General?”
“I am, sir.”
“Then do it. Is that all, Director?”
“We’ll also detain all known troublemakers.”
“Without charges?”
“Yes, sir. We can sort things out later.”
The president fired back, “Martial law?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“How would you describe it?”
“I’m not big on labels, Mr. President.”
“Welcome to my world. Learn to live in it or you’ll be patrolling the border with North Korea. You’re quiet, General Ren.”
“I understand, Mr. President.”
“Do you know the most important part of your jobs?”
Wei answered, “Infiltrating the Muslim high command.”
“Not even close.”
When Ren didn’t venture a guess, Lao supplied the answer.
“Don’t embarrass me.”
The motorcade is about to conclude.
Lao asks General Ren, “All quiet at the finish line?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
The limos are barely moving. “Good job, General.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How tight is security for tonight’s dinner?”
Ren glances at the chief of staff. Jin’s nod signals the general that he should address the question. “The Americans won’t let our men near their president.”
“If he is harmed,” Lao says, “everyone will think I was involved.”
“We’ve compensated with other measures. He’ll be safe, Mr. President.”
Circling helicopters, building-top sharpshooters, and thousands of ground troops blanket the parade route. The president is still uneasy. He fidgets as he watches what’s happening outside. Ren is looking straight ahead. He’s fixated on the split-screen monitor tracking activity around the motorcade.
Like his state cars, Lao inherited the general. Ren rose up the ranks slowly, mostly by not making waves. The president describes him in public as an experienced commander. Lao’s real views are far less sanguine. He has found Ren to be rigid, slow-witted, and lacking in leadership ability.
The general isn’t armed. But his Zhongnanhai Baobiao are heavily fortified. The three secret service men are sitting across from the president. Each is packing a TT 33 handgun and has a QBZ-95-1 assault rifle stowed in the hollow beneath his seat. When he became president, Lao worried about a deranged or disgruntled Baobiao turning on him. Over time those fears have receded.
He asks the guards, “How are we doing, men?”
The most senior responds, “Very well. Thank you, sir.”
The president makes a point of getting to know his protectors. All are married and have families. That is a prerequisite to riding with him. The job’s perks include a free education for their children at one of Beijing’s elite schools. His motivation isn’t entirely beneficent. The scholarship program gives the Ministry of State Security instant access to the guards’ loved ones.
Lao tightened surveillance of his guards a month into his presidency. He told his chief of staff, “The Baobiao concern me more than my enemies.”
“A program is already in place,” Jin replied.
“Increase our wiretapping, computer hacking, and unannounced drug and lie-detector tests.”
“I’ll tighten the protocols. Anything else?”
“Tell them my response to the age-old question.”
“Which one is that, Mr. President?”
“Whether it’s better to be loved or feared.”
“They know your answer.”
“Make sure they understand the consequences.”
“How specific should I be?”
“One sentence should be sufficient. We’ll liquidate their entire family if they’re disloyal. Leave the details to their imagination.”
It’s been a long week for the president.
The prep, the summit, and the nightly meetings have taken their toll. The molded seat Lao special-ordered is actually too comfortable. He’s nodding off, catching himself, and nodding off again. The president isn’t able to fight the cobwebs any longer. His chin slumps against his chest. Almost immediately he is sound asleep and snoring.
Lao’s nap is short lived. The driver jams on the brakes and comes to an abrupt stop. The deceleration jolts Lao's head forward then ratchets it back. The first sounds he hears are holsters unsnapping and the clicking of assault rifles. He thinks this is it—the coup d’état taking China back to Maoist purity and another bloody Cultural Revolution.
He’s relieved when he opens his eyes. The Baobiao are looking elsewhere. The two wingmen are down on one knee staring out their side windows. The senior bodyguard is sitting between them, directly across from the president. His focus is on what’s happening behind the limousine.
General Ren yells into his headset, “Surround him!”
Lao is moving closer to the monitor when the senior Baobiao points at the compartment under the floor pan. Waving him off, Lao asks the general, “What’s going on?” The general touches the middle of the screen and enlarges one of the images. A flaming figure is standing rigidly upright.
The president’s first impression is that someone is burning a scarecrow in effigy. That changes when he sees movement.
“Is that a person?”
Ren’s answer is a despondent “Yes, sir.”
The burning man seesaws his arms as he lumbers toward the front of the motorcade. Lao place
s a hand on Ren’s shoulder.
“No shooting, General. Tell everyone to stand down.”
Ren mumbles, “Sir?”
“You heard me.”
The man’s features are scorched beyond recognition. He isn’t wearing a robe and his ethnicity isn’t clear. The president still assumes he’s Tibetan. Buddhist monks have been setting themselves on fire for decades. Lao laments, “Damn transparency. We should’ve insisted on a broadcast delay.”
His chief of staff responds, “We can’t do it now.”
“Do we have a dump button?”
Jin was in charge of the TV negotiations.
“Negative. CNN has sole control of the transmission.”
“There must be a way to cut the feeds.”
“There isn’t, sir. With all the video recorders and phone cameras, it wouldn’t make any difference.”
“Order the soldiers to extinguish the flames.” When Ren doesn’t respond, Lao whispers in his ear, “Pull yourself together, General. Tell your men to put out the fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
Lao has seen videos of monks torching themselves. All of those immolations took place in Tibet and appeared staged, almost make-believe. It’s much different, he thinks, seeing it in person. The president watches the burning man stagger and fall. The suicide tries to get up but his left arm collapses, then his right.
Facedown in the street, he stops moving.
CHAPTER 2
THE TRAIN POWERS deeper into the Taklamakan Desert.
The Silk Road Express is crossing China’s Xinjiang Province. It’s three thousand kilometers west of Beijing. The outside temperature is a toasty thirty-five degrees Celsius. The day’s cultural activities have just finished. Most of the passengers are relaxing in the train’s sumptuous bar carriage.
Michael Brannigan is an exception. The CEO of Global Reach Engineering has a crushing headache. He left the group early and returned to his compartment. He popped a pill, drew the shades, and put on his sleeping mask. Since then he has been lying in bed trying to fall asleep.
The train began its trek a week ago. A twelve-member consortium of foreign engineers has the luxury liner to itself. Their spouses will fly home after touring Kashgar. The engineers and their geophysicist will helicopter to the Tarim Basin where they’ll supervise the development of China’s western energy fields. According to a recent Oil & Gas Journal article, those tracts contain the world’s largest reserves of fossil fuel.