Rocky covers his mouth. “These guys look worried.”
“Your English is better than that. They’re terrified.”
Soldiers and tradesmen surround the replacements. Rocky’s is the only smiling face. He reaches out to the newbies. “We appreciate the help.” They respond with a babel of unintelligible sounds.
Brannigan notices something in his peripheral vision. Turning to his left, he sees the sucker punch that knocks Rocky off his feet. Three crane operators flip the chief engineer onto his abdomen and tie his hands behind his back. When they’re done, the foreman pulls Rocky upright and presses a switchblade against his throat.
Buses and bodies make it difficult for many of the soldiers to see what’s happening. But Brannigan notices at least a dozen who have unobstructed views. He doubts he and Rocky would survive if they open fire. Acting instinctively, he raises his arms and hollers in Mandarin, “Don’t shoot!”
He doesn’t have a plan, or time to develop one. The Glock inside his waistband is of no immediate use. He’s already concluded that brandishing Rocky’s gun would cause World War III. The other extreme, doing nothing, appears equally problematic. He decides to risk a proactive mistake rather than be overtaken by events.
“Rocky is your biggest supporter.”
The foreman answers, “He has a strange way of showing it.”
Brannigan moves closer to the foreman. Slightly off-center, they’re less than a meter apart. Rocky is between them. Brannigan becomes distracted, first by sunlight reflecting off the soldiers’ rifles, and then by a bright uniform coming from the north. He blinks to make sure the goose-stepping officer is real. His chest is covered with medals and ribbons. Brannigan presumes the dandy is the legendary, way-past-his-prime General Shi.
He shares his misgivings with the foreman. “The PLA commander heading this way is a butcher. He’ll order the soldiers to open fire.”
“How do you know?”
“There isn’t time to explain. If you want to stay alive, follow my instructions.”
The foreman nods his agreement.
“I’ll ask you for the knife. Lay it in my palm, handle first.”
The foreman relaxes his grip on the switchblade. “Then what?”
“Rocky will tell you to lie on the pavement.”
“Don’t forget the happy ending.”
“That won’t happen until tomorrow.”
“What about today?”
“The soldiers will arrest you.”
“Why should—”
“We can’t prevent that.”
“Where’s the upside for us?”
“Rocky will ask the government to release you.”
“Why would they do that?”
“To keep the dam running.”
“What about our jobs?”
“He’ll recommend you keep them.”
The foreman tightens his arm against Rocky’s chest. “The American is doing all the talking. How about you, Zhou? Do I have your word?”
Rocky garbles, “I’ll do my best.”
The foreman asks Brannigan, “Why should I believe you?”
“Because you have two choices—do what I say, or martyr yourselves.”
The foreman doesn’t have a chance to respond. He sways back and forth and becomes separated from his knife. Both fall on the deck. Everything after that seems to happen in slow motion. Brannigan didn’t hear a gun go off, but he presumes a soldier shot the foreman. He knows the real cause a split second later. Isolated exclamations are now a chorus. A single word echoes across the summit.
“Dìzhén” “Dìzhén” “Dìzhén”
Brannigan mutters the same word in English.
“Earthquake!”
He activates his watch timer. Then stares at the summit in disbelief. The top deck is waffling like a distorted “S” curve. He widens his stance and lowers his center of gravity. That keeps him upright until someone bumps him from behind. He loses his balance and begins to fall. He recalls what happened during the train wreck and tries to protect his left shoulder. His body rotates in time and he lands on his right hip.
There don’t seem to be as many troops as before. Most of their weapons are lying unattended on the pavement. The soldiers haven’t fired on the attackers. He can’t imagine them doing it now. By the time he gets on his knees the tremors have become more powerful, and he gets on all fours to avoid toppling over.
The horizontal shocks keep coming. No one is standing and the buses are on their sides. Two scabs—both appear to be dead—are lying underneath the lead coach. Many of the workers and soldiers are crying. Others are praying in Mandarin. To whom, he has no idea. Most of the human sounds are monosyllabic and come out as gibberish.
There’s a change in the tremor pattern. The strongest waves are now vertical. He pictures what the seismic energy is doing—traveling through the bedrock, thrusting the concrete skyward, and slamming the summit. He knows that up here—two hundred meters above the river—all bets are off.
Rocky is crawling toward him. His hands are untied. He lies flat on his abdomen and hugs the causeway. “How are you doing?” Brannigan asks.
The hitch in Rocky’s “Hanging in there” belies his answer.
The next jolt lifts Brannigan off the deck. Gravity forces him back down. He rolls onto his side and sees a young soldier making a run for the elevator. He mutters, “Don’t do it, kid.” A lift is the last place Brannigan wants to be during an earthquake.
He uses the biofeedback technique Dr. Walsh taught him. His safe harbor is the belief that nothing could be worse than crashing a helicopter. Selecting that image as his calming filter was an easy choice. He accepts the risks of flying and doesn’t fear dying that way. His breathing and heart rate slow down. The process doesn’t eliminate his stress, but keeps it at a manageable level and allows him to function.
The summit absorbs another vertical blast. It’s the worst yet. Every seam and joint in the wall is creaking and groaning. Brannigan can’t believe what he’s seeing. Fifty-kilo ammo boxes are being tossed around like toothpicks. The 49th Airborne troops are all over the place, striking one another, their equipment, and the pavement. The upward momentum peaks. He knows what’s next—Newton’s Third Law of Motion. Coming down, the force levels are just as powerful.
Two more tremors roil the summit. Then the strong motion stops. Brannigan stabilizes himself by sitting cross-legged. He’s close enough to Rocky to rub his sweat-soaked head. “You’re a great labor negotiator. Dialing up an earthquake was pure genius. You forced the skills and scabs to find common ground.”
Rocky responds with a sheepish smile. “Guess you were right.”
The engineers join arms and stand up together. Brannigan hasn’t felt this unsteady since getting off the saucer ride at Coney Island. He checks his watch for the time interval. “Twenty seconds! It seemed more like twenty minutes.”
Rocky flexes his biceps like he’s won a heavyweight cage fight. “We took a big hit and the dam is still standing.”
Brannigan’s reaction is decidedly more Pyrrhic.
“True enough. But can it survive another one?”
CHAPTER 34
THREE GORGES DAM is vibrating again.
It’s another aftershock. Brannigan has experienced all of them. He and Rocky haven’t left the facility since the Richter 6.5 earthquake erupted three days ago. They have been working eighteen-hour days.
They arrived on the summit at sunrise and haven’t taken a break. Equipped with a telescope and binoculars, they are supervising the cleanup effort and keeping governmental leaders informed. The hydroelectric plant is down, and the utility hasn’t announced a date for getting back online. Shanghai is rationing power because of its recurring brownouts.
The utility won’t know the full extent of the damage for months. Unclogging the reservoir is incomplete. Flatbed barges with mini-booms are still removing dead bodies, disabled vessels, and tons of debris. The government doesn’t expect to find ad
ditional survivors in the water. It’s downgraded the rescue effort to a recovery operation.
“Geez. Not another one. When will they stop?”
Brannigan wipes orange juice off his shirt. He sounds more concerned about the stain than the shaking. “Not until the plates adjust.”
“How long will that be?”
“Anywhere from weeks to a year.”
“What’s the average?”
“The low end.”
“Will all this shaking weaken the wall?”
“Not if it’s this mild.”
Rocky is white-knuckling the west retaining wall. “What do you mean mild?”
“These tremors are an R-4. They’re barely strong enough to spill our drinks. A week from now they won’t bother you.” The motion has already stopped when Brannigan changes the subject. “When will you finish the cleanup?”
“Two weeks.”
“Why so long?”
“That’s optimistic. Only a few vessels sank. But most had equipment or munitions go overboard. There’s a lot of underwater debris.”
“How many deaths?”
“Fifty-one at the dam. Twenty-seven soldiers, fifteen sailors, and nine workers. The men who landed in the reservoir didn’t fall very far. Yet most died. The initial impact didn’t kill them. They either drowned or had boats crush them against the wall. Going over the east edge was a death warrant. None of them survived.”
“Is the body count complete?”
“It’s close, but more will turn up. Some of the corpses floated all the way to Gezhouba. We’re checking the riverbanks to see if others got snagged or submerged along the way.”
“When will we be up and running?”
“My boss wants us pumping juice this afternoon.”
“The turbines can’t handle this much gunk.”
“You don’t have to convince me.”
“The plant could be down for months.”
“I warned my boss. He said I was exaggerating.”
“The electricity isn’t even our biggest problem.”
Rocky fires back, “Speak for yourself.”
“You won’t like what I have to say.”
“That never stopped you before.”
Brannigan points their telescope to the area where the quake originated. “The epicenter was less than three kilometers away. I’m embarrassed about how little data we have. We didn’t even know that fault existed.”
“I told my people. They said, ‘Shut up and do your job.’”
“What do you think, Rock? The earthquake was no big deal?”
“I don’t know. The dam looks the same.”
“It’s not. The mainshock permanently weakened the wall. Future eruptions will make it worse.” Last night he sent Rocky an email detailing the nearby property losses. Brannigan assumes he hasn’t read it yet and summarizes the key points. “Twenty percent of the buildings in Yichang were significantly affected. Sandouping took a bigger hit. The preliminary numbers probably understate the real impact.”
“My boss calls that collateral damage.”
“Do you agree with him?”
“To some extent.”
“We need to talk.”
“What are we doing now?”
“About more than gigawatts.”
“I’ll listen. But energy is our top priority.”
“How about the millions of people living downriver from the dam—including your daughter and grandson? Picture what happens to them if the wall collapses. The reservoir will morph into a monster two hundred meters tall—with shoulders two kilometers wide—and a six-hundred-kilometer tail. It’ll destroy everything between here and the ocean. A tsunami that powerful would bankrupt the country.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Fire your seismologists. They’re useless.”
“The people in Beijing like them.”
“Of course they do. They approved the original feasibility studies and have toed the company line ever since. All they do is regurgitate past Richter levels and current seismic data. That won’t cut it.”
“All right. I’ll replace them. Unless they get rid of me first.”
“Hire a world-class outfit to map all the faults around the dam. While you’re at it, bring back our concrete engineers. We need to find out whether the quake caused new cracks, or enlarged existing ones.”
“I’ll get on it tomorrow.”
Brannigan types himself a reminder. “I’ll text you the names of two Los Angeles seismologists. Both are excellent but busy. If they’re too backed up, let me know. I have several other people I can recommend.”
“Thanks. I’ll check them out.”
“What should we do next?”
“I have to go back to my office.”
“What for?”
“To call the big boss.”
“Lao Ming?”
“Yeah.”
“He’ll probably give you an attaboy.”
“No chance of that. What should I tell him?”
“Geology won’t conform to the will of the Communist Party.”
“How about something less political?”
Brannigan sees a body floating in the reservoir.
“Tell him next time we might not be so lucky.”
CHAPTER 35
IT’S FRIDAY NIGHT at Global headquarters.
Brannigan is in his media room, sprawled across a leather couch watching television. Everyone else is gone. They left hours ago to enjoy the holiday weekend.
He switched off the overhead LEDs but midtown Manhattan is never dark. His roller shades are up and neighboring buildings stream light through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He hasn’t eaten since breakfast, but doesn’t want to go home or solo at a restaurant. He feels less lonely when he’s at the office.
His ringtone goes off. He doesn’t accept the call. It’s been a hectic day and the last thing he wants to do is talk. He’s about to put the phone in silent mode when his private line chimes. Its screening function limits access to five people. All of them know not to use it unless there’s an emergency. Brannigan doesn’t need to check the CID. He presumes it’s the only other person who would be working tonight.
Deciding he better pick up, he mutes the television. His tone is more welcoming than his greeting. “Bad timing, Sherlock. I’m watching the game.”
“We should talk—”
“What about?”
“—In person.”
“It’s past your bedtime. Where are you?”
“The lobby.”
“This better be important.”
“I’ll be right up.”
The security guard escorts Harry Dyer to the elevator, inserts his master key, and brings him to the top floor. Global occupies the entire penthouse and Harry doesn’t need further assistance. He pats the retired cop on the shoulder.
“Thanks for the ride, Fitz. Enjoy your weekend.”
Dyer touches the fingerprint sensor and unlocks the front entrance. He goes to the executive liquor cabinet, grabs a Johnnie Walker bottle, and follows the noise.
“Can I get you anything, Michael?”
“I’m good, Harry. Have a seat.”
“No rush. This can wait till the game’s over.”
Brannigan rotates his legs off the couch.
Dyer sits at the other end and opens the New York Post to page 6. Brannigan turns off the monitor before Harry has a chance to read today’s gossip. “I’ve seen enough. Chicago is taking them apart.”
“In that case, my news will be more exciting.”
“It must involve Brother Chang.”
“His excrement has hit the fan.”
Brannigan already extinguished two brush fires this week. He’s irritated about having to put out another one. “The guy is in the Taklamakan for months at a time. How could he get in trouble over there?”
Global assembled a new team for the Tarim Basin project. The consortium hit the ground running and the Reds are pleased with
the results. So is Brannigan. The project allowed him to beach Chang in the world’s second largest desert.
“It happened before you sent him there.”
“I don’t want to hear about Dickie’s mistress or long weekends. I’m willing to live with those shortcomings—at least for the time being.”
“That’s not why I’m here.”
“You said I was too hard on him.”
“Turns out you weren’t.”
“What has he done now?”
Harry hands Brannigan a copy of a confidential FBI report. “Look at what I circled.”
“Where did you get this?”
Dyer turns on the floor lamp. “You don’t want to know.”
Brannigan leans back and starts reading.
The FBI has developed sufficient evidence to convict Silicon Valley engineer Feng Min-Cho of economic espionage for passing technology secrets to the People’s Republic of China. Mr. Feng has been working as a software engineer at Modern Technologies Ltd. since receiving his PhD from Stanford University.
The agent in charge reported that the Bureau will collect enough evidence in the near future to justify related prosecutions against other spies.
He reviews the report a second time before giving it back to Dyer. “What does this have to do with Dickie?”
“He recruited Feng for the PhD program—”
“I didn’t know that was a crime.”
“—And placed him at MTL.”
“Where are you going with this?”
Dyer points to the last line. “Feng isn’t a lone wolf.”
“Most spies aren’t. So what?”
“The other moles were in the same program.”
“The report doesn’t say that.”
“My asset said they’re all Stanford PhDs.”
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