You have not earned your place with the great civilizations.
You presumed too much, too soon.
__________________________________
Sanchez focused her mind and quieted her heart rate, slowing it to fifty beats a minute. Stock still, no observable signs of life. Nothing to alert humans, yet no signals even to the most perceptive in the animal world that she was among them in the tall grasses and evergreen brush. Her breathing became measured, silent, no traces of the constant exchange of oxygen and CO2 in the air surrounding her. For most, this would be a sign of ill-health. For the sergeant, though, merely indicators of her readiness for the tasks at hand. Invisible since taking up this station three hours earlier, she maintained watch, not even a football field's length from the enemy.
As anticipated, Capt. Weng and crew touched down without any problems. Now stopped, the ground personnel began offloading supplies directly in the crosshairs of Sanchez' rifle sight. A small door opened underneath the beast and the tired men emerged, stepping down the retractable stairs and onto the tarmac. The sniper followed the airmen, each one frozen in her reticle as they moved toward the building.
She contemplated taking the shot.
Her right forefinger brushed against the smooth, steel trigger, tapping it twice from the side. She let it sit there for a moment, at the ready.
"C'mon. Yeah, right there Mr. Chen. One more step and..."
So easy from here. Too easy, actually, because her lack of distance to target would almost certainly prevent her escape. Even a suppressed shot at so much less than the normal range for her line of work would bring a swift and deadly response. Considering the big picture again, and with the self-control of a seasoned warrior, she pulled her finger back, alongside the weapon.
Her sarcasm and use of a stereotypical ethnic name didn't negate her professionalism nor her understanding of her place in this developing scenario. She had a role. She would deny her emotions and gain whatever advantage she could. Currently, it was intel, not active engagement, she was after. So, for now, her duties were simple: evade and assess.
A full week off the grid now, she had maintained her non-presence while also learning much. Staying mostly to the wooded areas on the vast installation, she had managed a couple of forays to the officers' village early on. There was scavenging to be done. Stay stealthy, stay mobile. Gather up what food and water supplies she could handle and then leave as invisibly as she'd arrived. The routine had settled on her as somewhat less than satisfying. Her anxiousness to relay information and receive more detailed directives grew daily. How and when this might occur was still an unknown.
Weng's men made their way over to Hanger D and began debriefing at the temporary, on-site post.
Sanchez was still watching.
It wasn't difficult to determine who was who. Leadership has a certain, identifiable substance. Not a swagger, exactly. This was only another mythic ideal created and reinforced by Hollywood. Instead, most often, those who shouldered real responsibility bore an orderliness in their movements. Steady. Intentional. Those given charge of warriors do what they do because they understand their place in the grand structure of things. They give orders because they know how to take them. These were the targets to eliminate, not the hotshot, cowboy types. This had been one of the first truisms impressed upon young sniper candidates: cut the head off the snake as fast as you can. The head? Well, that's obvious. It's the part sticking up and moving slowly, purposefully.
The tight cluster beside the hangar made for an easy shot. Notwithstanding the three hundred yards her rifled projectile would have to fly, this was a kill even the greenest of sniper-trainees couldn't screw up. As a matter of professional pride they might actually back up another few hundred yards, just to make it a little more challenging.
Sanchez allowed herself the briefest of moments to consider it again. A half breath and then holding it. Focused and ready, she called each part of her mind and body to facilitate this deadly sequence, one she'd mastered and repeated countless times. Many of these had only been practice, much fewer the real deal. Yet she considered each opportunity a lethal one. From a philosophical perspective, every targeting event had to be this way. Executioners often used this trick not so much to give relief from outcomes, but to convince those involved that their bullet was always the cause of death. It was a gritty, hard way to do your job. It was also the only real way to stay in this terminal game for any amount of time.
The sergeant's pulse slowed more, below the forty-five beats mark now. Her trained gaze narrowed further, pressing against cold, rounded metal. Motionless. Anything outside her small circular field of vision didn't exist anymore.
Focus. Hold.
Sanchez let the breath go, whispering to no one but her conscience.
"Alright, Mr. C... for now, you get to live."
The M24 came off its mini-tripod without a sound. With her kit packed up, Sanchez disappeared into the thick underbrush, committing herself again to the greater mission. Action would come. But only at the time and place of her choosing.
TWENTY ONE
Beijing
The thirty-five-member State Council recessed, having just heard official updates on developments across the Pacific. Outside the larger chambers a smaller cohort of seven men now made their way to the south concourse, aides and security in tow. Going somewhere in a hurry, their assistants struggled to keep up in a dignified fashion.
The group's departure, though hasty, drew little attention from the broader body of politicians. Eager for lunch appointments or the afternoon's slate of politicking, the other officials paid them no mind. The pace of the men quickened, their heavy, sloppy footsteps revealing a sense of urgency. Three minutes later entourages were dismissed; wait in the anteroom or be about other matters until called for again. Dark teak doors opened and then closed shut. Soon all were seated, in the president's private office.
"Gentlemen, we have some things to discuss," President Xi Jinping began, inviting the rest of the group to talk freely.
Though atypical of traditional Chinese leadership, Xi's education came from some of the finest business schools of the western world, learning the benefits of open critique and opinion in problem-solving and policy conversations. The Defense Minister stepped into the void first.
"Mr. President. American military evacuation is completed and our troops are now establishing control throughout the populace. Local police forces have begun disarmament. We are on schedule and continue to move resources into place."
"At this rate," he continued "We expect another ten to fourteen days before the assumption of transportation, communication, and civil infrastructure is complete."
"You speak confidently," Xi responded. "As always... "
Open to conversation—yes. Still, this president demanded more from the highly placed leaders of his country and openly bemoaned the aspects of their political system that fostered simplistic answers and institutionalized excuses. His words dripped with disdain, begging for a more thoughtful reply from the commander. He was disappointed, again.
"With all due respect, Comrade Xi, I see no other outcome for our people... than victory."
The president would not abide this line of thinking a moment more.
"Yes, I imagine you do not, Minister. And while your enthusiasm is enviable, I do not have the luxury of such naivete. I am not so sure it will go quite the way you envision."
The stinging rebuke in the presence of China's most powerful men landed hard. The minister's face reddened, matching the deep hues of the crimson carpet at his feet as he looked away, .
Xi let it settle for a moment.
"Now, maybe we can speak more honestly. Can we dispense with propaganda and move on to the real question at hand..."
A canyon-sized silence ensconced the room.
"... how long do we have?"
The query was a multifaceted consideration. It was also the only thing that mattered. Not battalions or tanks. Not
even nuclear-tipped missiles, standing as the ultimate checkmate against revolt. No, none of these things were of consequence. Time—this was the issue. And the critical question in the geopolitical puzzle before them was simply: how much remained.
Beyond these walls no one comprehended how fundamental a concern this was. Inside this room, everyone knew differently.
The Civil Affairs Minister looked up and spoke next.
"Mr. President… we do not know."
Before Xi could respond the minister attempted to shade his answer a more pleasing tone.
"We have applied all assets to the problem and are making progress but, at this point, an accurate assessment is not feasible."
"In other words, we need more time to know how much of it we don't have, Li Liguo?!"
The president's anger showed itself more fully this time and the emotional tide in the room rose right along with him. Xi was no longer seated behind his ornate Elizabethan-Era oak desk. His body language communicated deep disbelief at both the realities unfolding before them and the apparent incompetence of these men in doing anything about it. Astounding.
The Chinese Premiere, Chair of the State Council and highest-ranking member of the Communist Party in the room, shifted in his chair and weighed in. As the professional politician present his words were meant to bring cohesion to the unraveling interchange. He motioned with his right hand, a gesture indicating civility and unity.
"Your exasperation is understandable, Mr. President. No one wanted to be in this position. There was no way of predicting that our leverage would deteriorate in this way."
The metaphorical elephant had now entered the room.
"I find this utterly unacceptable, Li Keqiang," the president replied. "How is it possible to come to this point, not knowing our axis of pressure might dissolve right before our eyes?"
Another voice in the room spoke up.
"There were no indications of weakness in any of the testing phases; nothing at all to lead us away from full implementation. No red flags, sir."
This last statement came from Chen Bingde, Commanding Officer of the PLA General Staff. As the Chinese equivalent to the U.S. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, Chen knew the project intimately, was one of only a few people in the nation with full knowledge of its inner-workings. He hoped to break the momentum of the conversation, to recapture a sense of equilibrium in the room, perhaps move it on to a different track. So he continued while the opening still existed.
"It was a basic proposition," he explained. "American nuclear control depends on digital instruction sets, protected by other digital instruction sets. Although thousands of times more intricate than something like a password for a website, the concept is the same. The challenge is in being more clever than those creating the defenses."
The general looked at the others. No response, so he jumped in again.
"We found someone better. Right here; one of our brothers. He developed it. What happened next, what no one predicted, is referred to as sympathetic code migration. Obviously, no one here had ever heard of such a thing. To this point it has only been the subject of speculative, academic work, never seen in real-world situations."
Chen could tell he was losing them with the terminology so he stood now, pleading both with hands and words. The move, unbecoming a senior officer, communicated little else than the desire to assign blame elsewhere, or better yet, nowhere.
"Our new technology," he scampered. "... initially in control of the American nuclear systems, began cooperating with theirs, deferring itself to some different result. Not quite sentience in the full meaning of the word. More like advanced, multi-threaded problem solving. This is the process taking away our ability to lock up their missile launch and navigation."
"It keeps them from using them," he tried, as if there were a silver lining to be found. "It also degrades our grip on the weapons themselves."
"How long?!!!" Xi demanded, ramming his right fist down on the corner of the desk. "How long until our soldiers become vulnerable to the inevitable retaliation of civilian and military forces in the new province? How long... until the Americans regain command of their strategic nuclear capabilities... "
" ... and the next... no, final... world war begins?"
Post-Invasion
TWENTY TWO
Eastern Washington
Zeb looked out, across the expansive valley. Hands on thighs, exhaling forcefully, he was relieved, maybe even a bit surprised. Behind him was the vast backcountry he had impossibly survived. Ahead—the foothills, leading off the downward edge of the Cascade Range.
The grand vista welcomed him home to loved, familiar territory. Zeb had come this way most of his growing years, along with a passel of first cousins from the extended Dalton clan, all crammed into the belt-less seats of a '79 Ford VistaCruiser. Everyone understood the arrangement. Two weeks each spring were given to working row after row of his grandparents' sixty acres, non-gratis. The familial labor crew rose before dawn, a long morning's work awaiting them as they trudged through endless plots of apple and peach trees. The work was both monotonous and demanding. The company made it bearable.
Zeb's relatives occupied the usual lineup of odd characters and best friends springing from blood kin. Some you were downright proud of. Others avoided mention in family conversations altogether. Those days were never boring, that was for sure. And after a "good enough for today" came across Grandpa Dalton's lips, late afternoons were spent with a fishing line dangling in the creek, or if the water had warmed enough, their bodies in the lake.
Zeb smiled. This place did his heart and mind good. It was early, far too soon yet for fruit to be showing. Still, nascent buds protruded off gangly vines and limbs, announcing that winter had once again lost its grip. The dying season had ended. Life awaited on the near horizon as growth and fruitfulness prepared to explode across miles of farmlands.
Dalton had not experienced the area from this exact vantage point before. Nonetheless, it comforted and reassured him. It told him he was on the right track, had done the right thing in fleeing. These known sights and smells fostered a momentary yet significant hope. Zeb desperately needed that, in light of all the man had endured the last ten days. Back with the others at Swedish Medical Center, Zeb knew a tactical decision would be required, immediately so. The choices were clear enough. Stay and be forever trapped in the claws of the new Chinese province. Risk it all and run. Two options on the table.
For a man like Zeb, it was an easy choice.
Run. Go dark.
There'd been precious little time to consider his illegal, dangerous exodus from the Seattle metro area, no margin to prepare for the high altitude trek his instincts told him needed to take place now or helplessly await foreign dominion over everything and everyone between Canada in the north and Oregon in the south. This being the case, Zeb carried limited provisions with him into the wilds of the Cascades. A few sticks of beef jerky, two granola bars, and a handful of mixed nuts was all that money and time had allowed for. It was also what had been available at the only quickmart on the highway up to Snoqualmie Pass, after the frightened couple had left him to his own devices. Dalton knew how to budget such meager rations; he was a combat vet, after all. Disciplined allocation of resources wouldn't be the problem. Hypothermia, dehydration, wild animals. These were the real problems.
For the first day and a half Zeb tracked along the highway, staying as close as possible while still remaining undetected. This hadn't been terribly difficult. With the exception of two aerial patrols, both only broad, inexact sweeps of the area, he'd found himself pretty much alone between 4,000 and 6,000 feet above sea level. The Chinese were banking on police blockades and the stark, unforgiving environs of the Cascades to do a good part of their job for them. No one would be foolish enough to try to escape via this route.
Well, almost no one.
As rigorous as Day One turned out to be, Days Two through Three and a Half were much harder. In the pre-dawn hours of
the third day Zeb came around a blind corner—a harrowingly narrow path around large sandstone formations—only to find himself face to face with a grizzly, forty paces out, holding ground right where he was heading.
Maybe he was only seeing things. Blinking. Blinking Again. No, this was no phantom; no by-product of an overtaxed body and brain.
Run.
The command from his dulled mind produced a less-than-impressive reaction, more like ragged stumbling than a burst of acceleration on a straight line. Dark fur and sharp, bared fangs thrashed after him at an astounding pace. Zeb heard somewhere that a bear's pursuit velocity was among the fastest in the animal kingdom. Still, it seemed unreal that the large mammal moved with such power and grace. Only ten seconds of frenzied activity later, and who knows why, the creature gave up the chase.
The immediate peril appeared to have passed so Dalton slowed some. Trying to catch his breath yet still moving forward, his foot snagged an exposed root ball. Instantly, he was face down in the mud, arms splayed to the side.
Are you kidding me?! C'mon, I outran a flippin' bear.
Zeb stood, brushing himself off, dizzy and angered by the tumble. One more step forward.
Whoa.
The next footfall, had he taken it, would've dislodged a patch of loose rocks hidden by the thickened ground cover. His body weight, cooperating with the merciless pull of gravity, would have sent him through the veil of green and off a sheer, unseen cliff.
Zeb peeked over the edge.
The bottom loomed, some four hundred feet away.
Reflexively, he moved back from the alpine precipice. There, Dalton forced himself to think, to reset his mind and body before continuing on. So tired. He needed rest yet couldn't afford much of it at any one time. Constant cold, the need to keep active. His body's depletion. These elements all conspired against him, making the unthinkable somewhat appealing.
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