Fear. Weakness. Loss.
Zeb took the biggest risk of his life, hoping he could still do something good in this world, something that might matter, only to be lectured again by someone with authority but in his estimation, no brains.
Screw it. How incredibly stupid of me to think I could change things.
Chain of command; maddening, as always. There were things in the military you didn't fight. This looked like one of them. Fine. Chow and some quiet might not be bad anyways. He was very, very tired.
Back in the general's office, Stevens sized up the scenario. The commander knew how to read men and women, always had. Appearing as raw instinct during Officer's Candidate School, it had evolved into a crucial observational skill, one serving him quite well over the last twenty years.
Getting this one right, he thought, might take a little more time. He liked Dalton's spark. It intrigued him. Still, he needed more convincing as to the motives and abilities of this former soldier, now print salesman. Maybe his prayers were being answered. Maybe it was utter foolishness. Either way, the elder warrior would need time and input before making a decision.
__________________________________
Ft. Clark, Medical Services Unit
The still, studious figure hovered over no less than five medical journals, all lying open on the oversized counter space. She stared at the page, absorbing the ideas contained in black and white, lost contentedly in the texts before her.
Captain Lauralei McInnis, MD, PsyD, a graduate of Loyola University and USC Medical School, was an internationally recognized expert in the field of military mental health. Highly regarded by colleagues worldwide, she was the kind of doc other docs quoted and referenced in their work. Her latest research birthed ingenious new protocols for assessment and treatment, transforming and vastly improving the armed forces' approach to maintaining the psychological strength of its warriors. Prominent in the broader mental health stratosphere, any number of six-figure clinical appointments and the notoriety and travel that came with them were hers for the asking. Yet the forty-two-year-old Dr. Mac, as she preferred to be called, chose the rigors of the military as her life's investment and passion.
A proud daughter and granddaughter of veterans, Mac was not merely familiar with the lifestyle and environment; she loved it, everything about it. Sacrifice. The embodiment of noble ideals. A call to something beyond oneself. The military strummed a siren song she couldn't resist.
Though her transfer to the newly chartered Ft. Clark came suddenly, it came also as a welcomed opportunity. Such a degree of military displacement hadn't occurred before. That being the case, significant stress and challenges would be the byproduct of men and women facing the shame of forced removal from American soil. These were good people, carrying the fates of stranded loved ones and civilian friends on their consciences. So this was the exact place her care and insight would be most needed. She wanted to be here, doing all she could to keep these soldiers healthy and fit for duty.
Only moments after the president's speech to the nation the captain began lobbying for the post, whenever and wherever it might be established. Though her superiors soon tired of her relentless applications, memos, and reminders regarding the resettlement efforts and how she could best serve, the job was hers to turn down. No one else had even been considered.
A knock on the clinic door caught her attention and she turned. Engulfed in her work and surprised by the general's appearance she took a moment to salute. But salute, she did. Though suited up in her usual white lab coat, beneath it she was all military.
"Sir. General, sir."
"At ease, Captain."
The general approached, plopping Zeb's file down on the Formica tabletop in the middle of the ten-by-twelve-foot space.
"Pardon my unannounced visit to your fine establishment. I need you to look this over and give me your professional opinion as to whether I am crazy or not."
He didn't break a smile.
McInnis didn't quite know what to do next.
He slid the folder around with identifying tag across the top, oriented so she could read it.
"Um, sir," treading lightly, still not sure how to respond. "This file is for a... Lieutenant Dalton? I don't see how this bears on your... mental health..."
These last two words she spoke cautiously. The captain enjoyed a respectful, collegial relationship with the general. Still, it was early in her assignment at Clark and she wanted to do well here.
"Sure it's relevant, Captain. I am seriously considering sending this aged signal corpsman back into the most dangerous hot zone this army has seen, with outcomes almost too big to think about. That seems pretty nutty to me..."
Chewing the end of an unlit Macanudo, he pointed its soggy protrusion in her direction.
"... and I want you to tell me otherwise."
The general looked into her face for a moment, making sure Dr. Mac caught his seriousness.
She nodded.
Stevens continued.
"We may have been handed a gift from God here, Captain. This Dalton fella might be one of the only ways we can get our nukes back. Or, he may be as cracked as a Double-A egg from my grandpa's hen house. I am not sure yet which way to go on that proposition. I will need your full report and recommendations in two hours, Captain. That is all."
TWENTY FIVE
"You do realize the gravity of your offense, don't you Mr. Dalton?"
The first volley in the expected inquisition neither excited nor scared him. It was all theatre, so Zeb responded in character, playing to perfection the role of young, impetuous genius.
"Maybe the university should think about hiring someone better next time," he quipped. "And smarter."
The teacher stared past the student, heady presumption on full display. The questioner, sitting at the edge of an antique walnut desk, shifted his weight away in disinterested fashion, lighting a walnut-toned pipe and waving away the first puffs of smoke. The setting matched his attitude. Every square inch of wall space in the room was given to bookshelves, overflowing with bound volumes and notebooks. Between slow, laborious drags, he spoke again.
"Such may be the case. Then again, we're not here to discuss the competence of the university's programming personnel are we, Mr. Dalton?"
Leaning in, he played the professor-with-a-better-hand role. It was an impeccable counterpoint to the young man. Completely stereotypical—sure, but the tweed jacket thing was actually pretty good, Zeb thought. It was all predictably pleasant, even if somewhat overdone. Up to this point the encounter had gone as anticipated. That was all about to change as the older man's facial expression worked hard in assuring Zeb he was the good cop.
"Mr. Dalton, let me put it this way. You do not want to be expelled from this fine institution. This would be a grave mistake on your part. Were you to press on, this is the only outcome on the horizon. You may find yourself in the private sector soon enough. Yet I can say with some certainty there will be unfortunate repercussions from walking away from your studies prematurely, and in this manner."
He puffed again, pointing the stem and bit at the cornered student for emphasis.
"Vocational hurdles, shall we say, that you will find difficult to overcome."
Message received. Clearly. If Zeb walked now, he would step away as damaged goods, caution flags sent to every major employer in his field. He so disliked being trapped like this. He was also street-savvy enough to see the escape hatch opening before him.
The stunt that brought Zeb to this critical juncture had nothing to do with moral outrage. Nor was it an outcry against the unjustness of academia or any other more principled issue. It was only sport. To the university, though, it was nothing to wink at, as Zeb's unbridled curiosity, mixed with a copious amount of devilishness, had rendered the computerized grading systems for 35,000 students inoperable. The cost? Nearly three million dollars. Six weeks of repair and reprogramming. A month and a half in which the professors and staff had to handle fe
edback and scoring the old-fashioned way, adding untold hours to their already demanding schedules.
Surprise, this turned out to be no small thing to the president, deans, and faculty. And just like that, Zeb's remarkable undergrad success, complete with paid assistantships while still only a sophomore at the University of Washington, was in danger of meeting an untimely end. With no other options before him, this pipe-smoking inquisitor now became his friend. Behind the desk and seated now, his rhetoric decelerated, from thinly veiled threat to something far more reasonable.
"Mr. Dalton, I have something I'd like you to consider. I would like you to listen carefully before you respond."
Zeb nodded. Curious as to what might come next, he listened as instructed.
Fifteen minutes later he stood in the empty hallway outside the office, wondering where this all might end. The bargain struck for his freedom wasn't an ultimatum, per se. An offer of forgiveness and cleansed academic record as well as paid graduate studies in exchange for some kind of future service to his country. It seemed a fair offer. Dalton was good at sizing up wagers. Very good. So he gambled, assuming he would beat the odds again, whatever the outcomes. In terms of both geography and foresight it was a million miles from the lush green of the Puget Sound to the oppressive heat and aridness of Fallujah, Iraq and Kabul, Afghanistan. And Zeb was the last one in the world to imagine these faraway locations as where the piper would eventually come calling for payment.
The memory of the university setting dissipated, fading instead to grotesque, wartime imagery as the demons broke unwelcomed again onto the edges of his semiconscious mind.
Zeb awoke, startled and drenched in perspiration. The scratchy wool of an Army-issue blanket reminded him where he was: a cell in the Ft. Clark brig. He wondered if this may have been the stupidest thing he had ever done. Given Dalton's past, it would have some serious competition. On the other hand, it was qualifying as a heartier contender with every passing moment.
He laid back down and closed his eyes. Fitful sleep kept him at a distance. So, staring upward, he performed some quick calculations of the dots in the ceiling tiles, applying them to complex geometric patterns and graphing relationships. Just to pass the time.
__________________________________
Office of the Minister of Strategic Communications, Beijing
Zhou Dhe's face reddened, as puffy, over-inflated skin surrounded his nose and mouth. The blotchy complexion was partly the result of an unhealthy affinity for Baijiu, a staunch white liquor commonly containing 50% alcohol by volume. The remaining redness came from the aggravating phone call he was currently involved in.
"He is what?"
Somehow, Dhe spoke quietly and forcefully at the same time.
"Gone," the detached reply on the other end of the line voiced. "Disappeared."
"How is this possible? This was nothing more than a cleaning up of loose ends, remember?"
He allowed no response, cutting in again.
"Your guarantees appear to be as flimsy as your work."
"Mr. Chang, I assure you we will..."
"No! No more incompetence; no more, empty promises!" Dhe finished, slamming the hard plastic receiver down into its 1970s style cradle.
Operating under the assumed name, he would have none of it. No more failures would be allowed in this critical phase of the plan. The young owner of Dawn Star had served his purpose. The government had the technology, even if in a diminished state, and could follow through on their threats and realization of invasion. Junjie Zang was no longer needed. And neither was this contracted asset who'd failed their greater objectives.
No bother. Dhe had always planned on multiple, irreversible disappearances as a fundamental piece of their strategy. And yes, he and the committee had always intended to be the ones causing them. The minister fumed at the gross mismanagement of what he considered a simple task. But only a moment more. It was time to get to work.
Junjie, my boy. I am coming for you...
... myself.
Darkness covered his face as if affixed there; a mere outer reflection of the true colors of his heart. He glanced at the calendar program on his laptop and then shut the lid.
Four days. That's a good lead, but you'll need more than a head start to survive, my young businessman.
The grin on his face widened, the beginnings of a plan emerging. To Dhe, this was as much amusing as it was necessary.
The hunt was on.
TWENTY SIX
A solitary, yellowing fixture cast somber tones throughout the room. Junjie searched the weary yet joy-filled eyes of the twelve men and women at the table. Their reassuring gazes made him feel safe—for the moment.
So much to consider, yet so little time for deliberation. Their country's recent, bold aggressions imparted many cares to the small group. They were proud Chinese citizens, all of them. Still, they stood appalled, helplessly watching as the injustices of unprovoked invasion and captivity unfolded some thousands of miles away. They also shared a deep empathy with their American counterparts as many Christ-followers in the new territory became quickly singled out for their beliefs. Chinese leadership had made themselves quite clear on this point. Diluted loyalties would not be tolerated. It was daunting. Overwhelming. Their response? They prayed together, fiercely.
"We need your wisdom, Yasu."
"Please speak, direct us."
"Give our brother Junjie success. Protect him. Give him courage."
Simple yet heartfelt pleadings. Expectation and dependency cast on their faces, heard in their voices. Ten minutes later a calmness—palpable, emotionally tangible—settled in the room. It wasn't a cure-all. The seriousness of events around them had not faded, much less been resolved. They were neither foolish nor naïve. No, this trouble-tested contingent stood more clear-eyed than ever about the dangers before them. Failure, imprisonment, even death. These were very real prospects, triggered by any actions they might undertake. Still, they evaluated these outcomes in light of greater things. This perspective, this eternal set of lenses, made all the difference.
Junjie spoke.
"My dear brothers and sisters. I cannot thank you enough for receiving me. I realize I have broken our safety protocols but felt I had no choice. This is the only place I could come where Beijing might not probe so easily."
Rising emotion lodged the next few words in the back of his throat. Junjie swallowed hard, doing his best.
"I have lost friends, colleagues... stood over their lifeless bodies myself. Quan, Feng; both gone. And now I am a threat as well; one more contingency to be managed."
Eyes dropping to the tabletop, he found himself unable to look his cohorts in the face.
"I had nowhere else to run."
Aside Junjie a withered, age-spotted hand reached out, trembling, and then landing gently on his left forearm. The timely gesture came from a woman, deeply respected and honored in their ranks. She was the smallest and oldest of those gathered in the cramped space. She was also the elder who, after others talked for a while, centered them again with quiet yet potent words and faith.
Biyu Fong empathized with Junjie's angst—his fear, because her story intertwined with his, and intimately so. Like so many others from their village back in Gansu, she also had experienced the transformation, as it came to be known.
A new pair of eyes. A re-made heart and mind. They lived differently now. They dealt with one another and peered into the unknowns of futures and fortunes... differently than before. Such matters of faith and life would not be abided by their leaders. Instead, they were received as rebellion. And such could not be left unchecked in the new China. So it was that she bore the same marks on both body and soul that the young executive carried.
For her family's acts of treason her husband Lee had been imprisoned at the same time as Junjie's father. Biyu herself was beaten on multiple occasions. Teams of uniformed men wreaked havoc, demanding renunciation of this perceived foreign loyalty. Their home was burned,
left as rubble, while the few worldly treasures they'd accumulated lay disfigured, discarded in a smoldering, blackened pile. And just to finish the horrific scene? PRC soldiers stood by, laughing callously at their loss.
Biyu could not forget these images. These travails shaped her. Still, she came out of it more courageous, more tenacious, and surprisingly more forgiving; unhindered by the bitterness that should've held fast as shackles on her soul. The woman's sorrows ran deep yet her heart remained strong, so strong.
"Young one," she spoke, smiling, searching Junjie's face while stroking his arm.
"You carry much regret. Your eyes... "
Biyu lifted his chin in her tiny hand, reassuringly.
"Your gaze is faint, my child."
It was so true.
Junjie had spent an unhealthy, inordinate amount of time the last few days battering his heart over the what if scenarios. Somehow he needed to break free from the unmanageable burden of it all. Those minutes on his knees in his office were a good start. Still, shaking the relentless voices, all seeking validation, all wanting to place blame at his feet, had been a pitched battle.
Whenever he closed his eyes he was forced to endure again the likenesses of dead friends, seared cruelly into his minds-eye. And what of his precious family? Envisioning his wife and child held as dangerous pawns, drawing him to surrender, sickened him. He despised the license his work had conferred upon evil men. Junjie so wished to turn back the clock, to make different choices. The young man spoke honestly now, calling on the woman as a spiritual parent.
"I know, mother Biyu. It is a heaviness that will not lift. I do not know what else to do."
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