“They’re still reporting for work.”
“How did the government react?”
“Strikebreakers are getting physical with the laborers. But the big news is organizational. This is hot off the press.” Rocky handed Brannigan a promotional pamphlet. “The workers are forming the Chinese Federation of Labor.”
“It’s probably modeled on our AFL-CIO.”
“Same basic idea.”
“Are they going national?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You look exhausted.”
“We were already covering for the laborers. Now we’re doing the same for the plasterers and masons.”
“How do you feel about the strike?”
“I don’t like unions, but my men are underpaid.”
“Is the president involved?”
“Big time. He’s running the show.”
“Has anyone suggested a compromise?”
“Not yet. The government is taking a hard line.”
“What’s it doing?”
“Soldiers are breaking into strikers’ homes and threatening their families. Last week the PLA arrested union leaders and sent them to reeducation camps.”
“The laborers will be starving in two weeks.”
“Some are already going hungry.”
“Will they get violent?”
“Don’t know. But they remember what Mao preached.”
“To right a wrong it’s necessary to exceed a proper limit.”
“I’m impressed. You’ve been reading the Little Red Book.”
“Every night. But I didn’t need it for the quote. The strikers were chanting it so loud I could hear the Helmsman in my sleep.”
The crew is tying up the hydrofoil.
When Brannigan steps off the vessel, he notices how much things have changed. The picket line is longer and deeper. The control building has new fencing to keep the strikers out. Now twice as high, it’s electrified and topped off with barbed wire.
There are hundreds of soldiers around the entrance. He’s certain their ammo is live. This isn’t a tear-gas-and-rubber-bullet regime. The stakes are too high for that. Shanghai would have to ration electricity if the dam shuts down.
Rocky greets him at the dock.
“You thought New York was a tough town.”
“This is more like Chicago.”
The workers curse them as they approach the main gate. Brannigan knows what they think about him. That he’s an integral part of Beijing Central. He appreciates his on-site bedroom more than ever. Staying in a hotel isn’t a safe alternative.
He points at the river gunships. “When did the armada arrive?”
“Two days ago.”
“What happens next?”
“Permanent replacement workers.”
“That’s a big move. When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
When they enter the control building, Rocky walks past an all-business PLA sentry. The corporal gives them a shout. Badges aren’t enough. Even the chief engineer isn’t above suspicion. Today everyone has to show additional ID.
“It looks like the 49th Airborne is in charge of the dam.”
“That hasn’t happened yet. But it might.”
“What are they expecting?”
“Trouble. Even if they have to create it themselves.”
“What are we doing before the replacements arrive?”
“I’m tied up doing the strikers’ work. Stop by my secretary’s office. She’ll give you the latest concrete data. When you finish reading, meet with the test engineers. They’ll explain what they’re finding.”
Brannigan doesn’t want to wait that long. “How bad are the cracks?”
“They’re everywhere. Some are propagating.”
“Any other changes?”
“An uptick in seismic activity.”
“High enough to worry about?”
“No. But it might complicate your design work.”
“It shouldn’t. Dams aren’t that complicated. Bucky Beaver and George Westinghouse could design one on a cocktail napkin. Pond water, spin a turbine, and before you know it, you’re lighting up a major city. Beefing up the wall will also reduce the seismic risk. The fix will be expensive but it’ll correct the problems.”
There’s a splotch on Rocky’s cheek. Brannigan didn’t notice it in New York. He moves closer for a better look. The redness appears to be a cluster of broken capillaries.
They stop in Rocky’s office so he can change into his work clothes.
“I’d have a drink with you, Michael, but I’m way behind.”
“You need to slow down.”
“What I really need is a thirty-six-hour day.”
“Has a doctor looked at that mark on your face?”
“Yeah. He prescribed medication.”
“What’s it supposed to do?”
“Lower my blood pressure.”
“Has it gone down?”
“Not yet.”
They walk past a senior manager. The woman is mopping the floor. She’s out of earshot when Brannigan comments, “You shouldn’t have female engineers doing that.”
“She prefers it to what the men are doing. They’re degreasing sump pumps, unclogging drains, and scooping up dead rats.”
“What can I do to help?”
“How about covering for our plasterers?”
“Sure thing. But what if they ask me to join their union?”
“That I have to see. You working for their pay scale.”
CHAPTER 32
BRANNIGAN WOKE UP with a sense of foreboding.
The scabs will infuriate all the workers, not just the laborers. He suspects the Politburo is trying to goad the blue collars into staging a general strike. The Reds could use a dam-wide walkout to justify suppression of the labor movement. He thinks Lao may have issued last night’s order to shield the public from an impending bloodbath.
Brannigan got four hours’ sleep. That has been his norm. Work tension doesn’t keep him up. The Silk Road bombing hasn’t either. Unlike other survivors, he never developed PTSD. He doesn’t think twice about boarding the subway or Long Island Rail Road. His nighttime distress has a different cause. He would gladly swap his PKSD for post-traumatic stress disorder. He doesn’t blame Dr. Walsh, but her treatment has been counterproductive. Psychotherapy has intensified, rather than diminished, his black dog.
He’s sitting alone at one of the cafeteria’s outdoor tables. He brought his own breakfast—bran flakes, a banana, and a carton of low-fat milk. Ten minutes ago a mild tremor sloshed his coffee and the milk in his cereal bowl. He couldn’t tell if it was a discrete event or the precursor of a larger disturbance.
He has gradually acclimated to the high humidity. He wears moisture-wicking clothes, drinks plenty of liquids, and stocks a closetful of Old Spice deodorant. If he had to rank hydro facilities, Three Gorges Dam would win first prize for the highest dew point. It’s also one of the least photogenic sites. The acidic gray wall is bleaker than a Harlan County gravel pit.
His errors and omissions insurer is less than thrilled about the project. Lloyd’s of London insures against every imaginable peril. Even the wonks at One Lime Street weren’t comfortable with their financial exposure on this risk. The managing agent for his syndicate requested that he decline the assignment. He listened to the underwriters’ remonstrations but took the job anyway. Lloyd’s ultimately agreed to cover his work at the dam. It did so reluctantly, and only after imposing a hefty premium increase and a coverage sublimit.
It’s time to send another report to China Three Gorges Corporation. He prepared a mental outline during breakfast. The next step is to write down his major points and annotate them with supporting data. He has a writing instrument in hand but hasn’t jotted down a single word.
When he gets going, he’ll limit himself to engineering recommendations. The Chinese didn’t retain him to criticize the Politburo for building the dam. They already know t
he wall has flooded nineteen counties and six hundred industrial sites, driven a million people from their homes, and forced farmers up gorge walls where growing crops was beyond challenging. The Reds were also aware their mega dam would be in the middle of an earthquake zone.
Brannigan puts down his pen and visualizes the gorges trapped behind the dam. Xiling, the closest of the three, is the giant wall’s next-door neighbor. It’s seventy-five kilometers long and contains seven smaller gorges, each with mini-canyons and distinctive peaks. Shadow Play’s four silhouetted characters, Kongling’s iron green walls, and the yellow stalactite streaks on Horse Lung’s face were all high enough to survive. But they’re dwarfed by the dam and reservoir.
Farther west, Wu Xia, the mystical Witches Gorge, is barely recognizable. Its twelve emerald peaks once framed whitewashed villages and terraced farms. All of that is gone, and Wu Gorge has lost its persimmons, peaches, and chestnuts. Only the hardiest peasants followed the goats and relocated higher on its steep, infertile slopes. Everyone else who populated these twenty-five kilometers has left.
Qutang Gorge, the farthest west from the dam, is only eight kilometers long. Despite its size, he ranks it as the crown jewel of the three. Its narrow entrance and steep cliffs remain otherworldly. The mountains shoot straight up until they lose themselves in the gorge’s swirling mists. Qutang’s ecology is exceedingly delicate, and the stagnant reservoir has severely contaminated its human, bird, and fish populations.
At first he couldn’t believe the number. He knows now that it’s an understatement. The Chinese discharge at least a trillion liters of waste into the Three Gorges reservoir every year. The last time he was in Chongqing, the yellow dragon was so pungent he spent the evening in an oxygen bar.
He looks up and sees the chief engineer coming his way.
“Morning, Rock. Tired of emptying the garbage?”
“When I finish that, I have to disinfect the toilets.”
“What time are your scabs reporting for duty?”
Rocky puts on an offended face. “They aren’t mine.”
“Are they up and running yet?”
“Their orientation begins in a half hour.”
“Don’t forget to strap on your helmet.”
Rocky taps Brannigan’s pad. “You haven’t gotten very far.”
“Not to change the subject—”
“From your total lack of progress?”
“Correct.”
“To what?”
“How much officials and contractors stole building the dam.”
“There were a lot of rumors.”
“This is my estimate.” Brannigan writes down a US dollar amount, tears off the page, and slides it under his pad.
“Let me see it.”
“Not until you have skin in the game.”
“Before I guess, I want to read this again.” Rocky flips through the latest concrete report. “Your testing outfit found high water-to-cement ratios and poor consolidation of the concrete. The entire wall—all the way to the bedrock—has excessive chipping and cracking. It goes on and on. Debonding of the cement paste, air voids, debris in the casting fields, migration of concrete mixes, and missing rebar. The contractors cut corners everywhere and used substandard materials. There must have been massive corruption.”
Brannigan quotes a related section in the test results. “‘The as-built drawings are inconsistent with the design documents and with the dam as constructed.’” Commenting, “That’s incredible,” he waves his estimate at Rocky. “Last chance. Write down your best guess, or you won’t see mine.”
Rocky writes a figure on a napkin and hands it to Brannigan. “Converted to US dollars, the Politburo swears the project only cost twenty to twenty-five billion. Most of us think the final price tag was somewhere between ninety and a hundred. If the total was that high, insiders probably embezzled thirty billion dollars. Maybe more.”
“No wonder your politicians wanted to build it so badly.”
Rocky looks at Brannigan’s number and whistles out loud. He rips both guesses into small pieces and puts them in his pocket. “You may be right.”
It sounds like a gang war is breaking out. They turn around and watch strikers throw bottles and rocks at a van delivering replacement workers.
“What’s the plan, Chief?”
“The new guys will start working after lunch. This morning they’ll fill out forms, sit through a short movie, and tour the facility. When we’re done with that, I’ll introduce them to our tradesmen.”
“That last part is a bad idea.”
“The replacements—”
“The scabs.”
“—Need to meet our skilled workers.”
“The scab haters.”
“Did I mention they have to work together?”
Brannigan tightens his hands around an imaginary throat. “Unless they kill each other during your group hug.”
“I don’t need your management advice.”
“It’s free, no extra charge, gratis.”
“What if I still don’t want it?”
“You’re gonna get it anyway.”
“All right, hotshot, what am I doing wrong?”
“You’ve suppressed workers for centuries—”
“I haven’t.”
“Collectively you have.”
“Harassing me won’t change things.”
“You’re in charge of this place.”
“I don’t make these decisions.”
“How high does this go?”
“The very top.”
“Then talk to the president. Stiffing the laborers won’t work unless you terminate all workers and start over. Tell him to order a lockout.”
“Corporate wants to keep the skilled people.”
Brannigan is tempted to use stronger language. “That’s shortsighted.”
“It’s hard to replace their know-how.”
“Your boss doesn’t understand labor dynamics.”
“You’re underrating him. He knows what’s happening.”
“If you believe that, then you don’t either.”
“What are you seeing that we don’t?”
“The laborers aren’t your biggest challenge.”
“It’s their strike.”
“They’re just the stalking horse.”
“For whom?”
“Your skilled workers.”
“Most of the tradesmen are crossing the picket lines.”
“Don’t let that fool you. They’re the real powder keg.”
“Since when?”
“From the beginning.”
“Their situation hasn’t changed.”
“Take off your blinders.”
Another group of replacements is exiting a van. They’re covering their heads and hustling into the control building.
“When did all this happen?” Rocky asks.
“The day you hired the replacements.”
“For the laborers.”
“The tradesmen are convinced they’re next.”
“Am I that out of touch?”
“I have a source—”
“Who?”
“That’s confidential.”
“Is he a striker?”
“Yes.”
“How much has he told you?”
“Quite a bit, including my nicknames.”
“You are quite the smart-ass. What do they call you?”
“Yáng guĭzi.”
“That’s a punishable offense.”
“Dissing me doesn’t matter.”
“Yes it does. Who said it?”
“Forget about him—and me. It’s their way of attacking you.”
“That’s no surprise. I’m the face of the company.”
“It’s worse than you think.”
“You’re talking to the wrong guy. I can’t change things.”
“Enough said. I’ll back you up.”
“Do you really expect trouble?”
“It’s
a certainty. The only question is who’ll start it.”
“What do you recommend?”
“When I work in politically unstable countries, I bring a bodyguard and carry a gun. What we got going today is just as dangerous.”
“Our people do some stupid things, but we’re not that crazy.” Rocky watches a soldier checking the scope on his assault rifle. “Besides, we don’t need more firepower. The 49th is armed to the teeth. They could wipe out a major city.”
“But not an angry welder with a .22.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Loan me your Glock 26.”
“If anyone—”
Brannigan raises his windbreaker.
“I’ll tuck it in my waistband.”
“Like the movies?”
“With me starring as Charles Bronson.”
Rocky whisks a finger across Brannigan’s upper lip.
“Not without the mustache.”
CHAPTER 33
LAO SUSPENDED PUBLIC access to the dam.
Rocky received the directive late last night. He didn’t appreciate the short notice. His staff has turned away thousands of tourists. Many had traveled long distances to visit Tanzi Ridge, 185 Platform, the Dam Viewing Point, Memorial Garden, and the Exhibition Hall. The official word is that the shutdown will expire next week. That hasn’t slowed the rumor mill. The blue collars expect the closure to last until the government crushes the union.
Despite the unrest, crane operators are lifting equipment from the reservoir. Electricians and plumbers are installing new fixtures. The pipefitters are reconstructing damaged and worn-out railings. Replacement laborers have joined the tradesmen on the top deck. Packed together on buses, the scabs are receiving a Cook’s tour of the summit. There are more military personnel on the summit than civilians. The 49th Airborne has secured the entirety of the two-kilometer span.
Brannigan and Rocky separated when they arrived on the top deck. Brannigan strolled south for half a kilometer. Now he’s on the east summit looking down at the riverboat gunships. The number of armed vessels has increased since yesterday. He noticed another unsettling development. Government videographers are setting up tripods. He doubts they came to film a routine day at the dam.
The buses are applying their brakes and coming to a stop.
Brannigan watches the replacement workers get off their coaches and huddle together on the causeway. If any are pleased to be here, it’s not readily apparent. Almost to a man—there aren’t any women—they’re slack-jawed, hunched over, and trying to avoid eye contact. They close ranks around Rocky. When he blows his whistle, the tradesmen put down their tools and join them. Brannigan—the last to arrive—squeezes through the crowd until he’s literally the chief engineer’s right-hand man. Barely moving his lips, he whispers, “A penny for your thoughts.”
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