by Greg Ripley
“One of these prophecies—which incidentally was among those Wang retrieved from the Dunhuang cave—spoke of a time when green-eyed people from many different nations would come together to save the world from a great calamity. When the Elders appeared, we were as shocked as the rest of the world, except for our Guanzi. Having read the ancient manuscripts. When we found out I had been requested by the Elders, the Guanzi immediately put us to work finding out who the other ambassadors were and whether they, like me, had green eyes. When we did, her suspicions were confirmed.”
“Well, if that’s supposed to be us, I’m not sure how we’ll be able to do that holed up in Chinatown,” Jane said.
“I think I can help with that,” said Guangming. “The society can certainly assist us in getting out of the city, the question then becomes what our next step should be. I propose we go speak with the Guanzi. Whatever the best course of action is, the Guanzi will know. If nothing else, the society could keep us hidden until the Elders return.”
“And where is the Guanzi now?” Jane said.
“In China. In the Qilian Mountains.”
24
Rohini, Jane, and Guangming stayed holed up in their Chinatown apartment for the next several days while arrangements were made. Running with nothing but the clothes on their back had left them unprepared for an extended stay underground, let alone the traveling they were preparing to do. Fortunately, his DC contacts kept them clothed and fed and were working on getting them the fake passports they would need to get out of the country.
Even this wouldn’t be enough to get them through most airports with the tighter security that had now become the norm. What began as a knee-jerk reaction in the wake of 9/11 had never let up. Once a whole new level of bureaucracy was created, it had quickly become entrenched, and would remain so for the foreseeable future.
The plan was to take a private plane from a small airfield, something the society fortunately could provide with their extensive network and deep pockets. Taking a private plane granted them a lack of scrutiny usually reserved for billionaires and celebrities. One of the society’s members would be flying in to pick them up, taking them first to Hong Kong before continuing on to Gansu Province.
While the necessary arrangements were made, they spent most of their time watching the news and trying to catch what little information Burt was able to relay to them about the investigation. Not being a part of it himself, what he was able to glean was coming in dribs and drabs.
The first day, no one claimed responsibility for the attack, but in the days that followed, word began to spread that the Soldiers of the Caliphate, long thought defunct, had claimed responsibility. Guangming’s sources were right. The terrorists released a video of a masked spokesperson reading a prepared statement in front of a black flag bearing the symbol of their organization, the Hawk of Quraish with crossed scimitars.
When they saw the video for the first time, Rohini couldn’t help thinking how generic it was, like it could be anyone behind that mask. All you need is a ski mask and a camera and you can take responsibility for anything you want. They have yet to develop facial recognition software that can beat a balaclava.
Then again, terrorists had gotten smarter over the years. They’d learned from their mistakes. It hadn’t taken them long to realize the slightest clue in a video could give away their location. A seemingly nondescript building in the background or a recognizable feature of the landscape, even an unnoticed reflection in a window—any of these might tip off investigators, which meant drones wouldn’t be far behind.
There was nothing Jane, Guangming, or Rohini could see to go on in the video. The speaker’s features were well-hidden. The flag appeared like the ones the group had used in the past. One might assume that the group would be active in the same area as in the past, the area which they had claimed as their new caliphate, but Jane thought there was no way they would be stupid enough to operate out of the same area. That would simply make them too easy to track down.
Rohini, on the other hand, thought that since they were stupid enough to be terrorists in the first place, she wouldn’t put it past them. “I thought we’d gotten beyond this,” she said. “I mean, I understand some of the civil strife that’s been going on lately with the weather being so crazy. All the droughts and food shortages driving the refugee crisis are understandable reasons for unrest, but I’ve never been able to understand religious intolerance or racial and ethnic tensions before.”
“I don’t think it’s necessarily accurate to consider these guys religious fanatics. While they have tried to wrap themselves in a cloak of religiosity and holiness, the world sees them for what they are—power hungry thugs and murderers. Their actions when they ran their supposed caliphate bore that out. They never attempted to live up to their own ideals. Their hypocrisy was as remarkable as their brutality,” Jane replied.
“I suppose so, but they certainly were able to use others’ beliefs to fan the flames. The thousands of fighters that flocked to them proved their genius, diabolical though it may have been,” said Rohini.
“It’s true what you’re saying,” Guangming chimed in. “But it is not unique to them. It is reminiscent to me of the mob mentality which prevailed in China during the Cultural Revolution, or the Red Scare in your own country during the McCarthy Era.
“Take this man for instance,” he said pointing to the TV. “He is playing on the fears and insecurities of your people for his own gain, simply to enrich himself, and yet his followers are unable to see through his charade.”
On the screen was an older white man in a shiny gray suit with a red power tie standing behind a podium. Although his suit was probably expensive, he still managed to look dour and frumpy. He was obviously overweight, and had a bizarre hairstyle, somewhere between a comb-over and a pompadour. The sound was muted, so they couldn’t hear him speak, but by the spittle leaving his mouth and the wild gesticulations of his arms, they could tell it was probably his usual vitriolic rhetoric.
“If the SOC is the last gasp of terrorism—like you were saying—I hope Terrence McDonald’s candidacy is the last gasp of racism and misogyny,” Rohini groaned.
“One can only hope,” Jane agreed. “What amazes me about him though, is how they can’t see right through him. He’s always been a bully and a con man, to me he instantly comes off as a total bullshit artist.”
Terrence McDonald was all those things. While he always painted himself as a successful businessman, using his name as his brand, attempting to make it synonymous with class and success, he was anything but classy.
“You’re right. He even talks like one of those pitchmen from late-night infomercials,” Rohini said. “Don’t they realize he’s selling something? I mean I guess any candidate is selling something, but he sounds like a carnival barker, and his ideas are like a word salad. How can people take him seriously?”
“I guess they’re buying what he’s selling. They are willing to overlook his hyperbolic rhetoric because they have identified with him. They believe he can save them from the boogeymen he has created,” Guangming said.
“I suppose so. There is a certain authoritarian personality type that likes that whole ‘strongman’ thing, whether it’s dictators or sugar daddies,” Jane said. “There’s also another group which he appeals to because of his wealth. They’re the kind of people who want low tax-rates on the wealthy—even though they are poor themselves—because they think they’ll win the lottery someday. It’s the same people that still buy in to trickle-down economics.”
“When he announced his candidacy and he said he was going to build a wall, a great wall, I thought, oh please, the Great Wall, that’s our thing,” Guangming said. The three laughed together for a moment, the joke a welcome relief.
“He’s a real peach, as my uncle would say,” Rohini said, shaking her head. “I guess he comes from a long line of peaches though. Did you know his
father was arrested at a Klan rally when he was young? And his grandfather made his fortune running brothels during the Gold Rush after skipping out of Scotland to avoid conscription during World War I.
“He even went to a military academy, but then he got five deferments to avoid the draft during Vietnam. You’re right, he is a real peach,” Jane said. “He certainly has used recent events to his favor though, hasn’t he? He was already whipping people into a frenzy about immigrants and refugees, and then when the Elders arrived, it was like immigrants on steroids. I mean you can’t get much more ‘other’ than aliens.”
“They represent everything he is opposed to. He is even still a climate change denier, is he not?” Guangming said. “Even as some of the low-lying island nations are already relocating their populations from sea-levels rising, and the coral reefs are dying due to ocean acidification. How can anyone be so obstinate in the face of such undeniable evidence?”
“Well, I guess it’s the inevitable result of half of the electorate moving away from ‘fact-based’ politics,” Rohini said. “If the facts get in the way of your ideology or your bank account, you can just pretend they don’t exist. Isn’t a lot of his fortune tied up in fossil fuels? I can’t imagine the sudden shift in our energy policies has sat well with him. I know he’s always been accused of grossly inflating his wealth, but even he must have taken quite a hit when fossil fuels tanked.”
“You’re probably right,” Jane said. “And now with the renewed threat of terrorism in the mix, it’s just adding fuel to the fire.”
25
The Simms Estate
Westchester County, New York
“Terrence, I thought we agreed you were going to tone down the rhetoric?” Bartholomew Simms said. He sat in his office as usual, talking into the speakerphone at his desk. He’d been ready to tear McDonald a new one after watching the morning’s campaign event, but he’d stayed civil.
“I thought it went great,” Terrence said. “They love me out there. My supporters are the greatest. No one has ever had supporters like me.”
After a few more fruitless attempts to talk some sense into McDonald, Simms gave up. It was no use. There was just no getting through to him. He only heard what he wanted to hear, and he’d say anything to placate you, saying the exact opposite in the very next breath. Oh well, McDonald is serving his purpose.
He’d thrown a total monkey wrench into the elections. Simms had hoped McDonald would be able to challenge Susan Powers in the upcoming election, and he might have, if he were capable of sticking to the script for more than twenty-four hours. He’d had serious reservations the first time McDonald went rogue. Now that he’d gone completely off the reservation, Bartholomew had resigned himself to a Powers’ presidency. There’s no way this clown can win anymore. Not after all the damage he had done with his support among women and all the crazy things he’d said over the last few months. Now that Susan Powers was the president, she’d be unbeatable as the incumbent.
It wasn’t widely known that Simms was the main benefactor behind McDonald’s candidacy. He’d made sure of that. Most of the money he’d allocated to backing McDonald had gone into dark money pools through bundlers and super PACs. He’d taken full advantage of the murky new world of campaign finance created by Citizens United many years before, but now that McDonald’s campaign looked sure to crash and burn, Simms had begun scaling back his support. No use throwing good money after bad.
Perhaps he might still be useful in dealing with the Elders. When they first showed up, most of the public reacted like it was the Second Coming—the answer to the world’s prayers in dealing with the specter of climate change. Where McDonald had been especially useful to Simms had been in his ability to tap into the vein of xenophobia that was McDonald’s bread and butter, and extending those irrational fears to the aliens.
To Simms, as well as McDonald and his supporters, there was nothing irrational about those fears. Not having been privy to telepathic communication with the Elders, they had no way of knowing whether the Elders could be trusted or not. McDonald was their ideal spokesman, not afraid to voice the fears they all felt. The crowds at his early rallies had focused their disdain on minorities, immigrants, and President Johnson. But their scorn had become increasingly focused on the Elders in recent weeks, and since the attack, President Powers.
What strange bedfellows, he thought, realizing that McDonald was successfully turning a large portion of the population against the Elders in almost the same way he was using the terrorists. It had been a bonus when word leaked that two of the Earth Ambassadors were unaccounted for and were suspected of being involved in the attack. That helped draw attention away from his team, further covering their tracks.
Gruber learned the investigation had turned up a past connection between the agent who had taken out his team and the terrorists. Perhaps they could use that lead to track her down. While Simms couldn’t have cared less about the man who had died in Rohini’s failed abduction—Gruber’s team members were disposable in his mind—it irked him that his plans had been thwarted. He never let people get in his way, in business or in life. If his men were able to find her, he’d make sure she’d never get in his way again.
26
When Rohini heard about their travel arrangements, she couldn’t help but feel some trepidation. She loved to travel, but this sounded like the sequel to Planes, Trains and Automobiles.
“It won’t be that bad. Especially not the first leg of the trip. We’ll be flying in a private jet, after all,” Guangming said, attempting to reassure her.
“That’s not the part I’m worried about,” she said. “It’s everything after that.”
“I’m sure it will be fine, it’s not like we’ll be riding bareback,” Jane said. “Now, that I would have some issues with. I don’t even want to think about the chafing.
“What we should probably be the most worried about is making it onto the plane in the first place. There’s only one nearby airport outside of the Special Flight Rules Area around DC—Stafford Regional Airport, which unfortunately is just south of Quantico.”
“Seriously?” Rohini said.
“As long as we keep a low profile we should be fine. Between our new identities and the transportation Guangming has arranged for us, I don’t think they’ll even give us a second look.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Jane and Rohini altered their appearance for the trip. They both dyed their hair and eyebrows black, before taking photos for their new passports, but all three of them thought it best to wear colored contacts. Three people with black hair and brown eyes would certainly stand out less—especially once in China—than three people with green eyes, and Jane’s red hair would definitely not have gone unnoticed.
After everything was arranged, the morning of their departure arrived. The son of the elderly Chinese couple who ran the market knocked on the door to the apartment, letting them know it was time to go.
Grabbing their gear, they made their way downstairs to the storeroom, past the rows of shelves, and out the back door of the market, which opened to the alley. A black limousine with a pair of small Chinese flags attached to the hood was there waiting, the engine still running. The driver held open the rear door as soon as he saw them, ushering them quickly inside. They left the alley and made their way toward I-95 and Fredericksburg, Virginia, where they hoped a plane would be awaiting them at Stafford.
The society had provided them with a car from the Chinese Consulate in DC, complete with diplomatic plates. It would work wonders in avoiding any undue attention from the authorities. Most law-enforcement personnel knew not to go after such vehicles unless they were willing to risk their jobs. Their occupants typically had diplomatic immunity from prosecution and messing with them risked an international incident. It had come as a boon to their escape plans.
“Fingers crossed,” Rohini said as they left Chin
atown, once more passing under the Friendship Arch.
The drive was as uneventful as it was nerve-racking, especially the fifteen minutes or so driving past Quantico. Every time they saw a police car, Rohini was about ready to jump out of her skin. She felt certain the agents at the academy must know they were driving by, her paranoia growing by the minute.
Even as they’d safely reached the gate to the airport, Rohini had imagined police cars, their lights flashing and sirens wailing, rushing out to stop the plane before it could head down the runway and take off. Once they had successfully passed through the gate, after signing in under their assumed identities, they drove right to the plane. They grabbed their bags and headed towards the Gulfstream’s airstairs which were already deployed. A face popped out of the open hatch.
“Welcome aboard, friends!”
Rohini stopped dead in her tracks. Standing in the open door of the plane was the Hong Kong action star Jimmie Yan. “I know, just keep moving,” Guangming said, as he passed her, stepping onto the airstairs. “You can get his autograph on the plane.”
She wasn’t usually one to be star-struck—and truthfully wasn’t even now. It was just the unexpected juxtaposition of someone she’d seen in so many movies suddenly standing in front of her—there of all places, in the middle of all this craziness—that had stopped her short. She recovered her wits and followed Guangming onto the plane. Jane brought up the rear, scanning the area one last time before ducking inside the plane.
The pilot closed the door behind them and disappeared into the cockpit to prepare for takeoff.
“Please, have a seat,” Jimmie said, after they stowed their gear. The cabin was configured for 11 passengers, the minimum available as it had all the bells and whistles, including a conference table, a pullout couch, and even a bar. “Make yourselves comfortable. Can I get anyone a drink before we take off? We’ve got a fully stocked bar in the back.”