by Jinkang Wang
A soft tone sounded from her cell phone. Elizabeth couldn’t risk Hoffman’s words being broadcast, so she quietly turned off her microphone. Hoffman whispered, “Have a closer look. Do those Indians have real bombs?”
“Looks like it,” she whispered back. “I see wires and flashing red lights. Do you still think they’re terrorists?”
Despite her precautions, one of the silent companions noticed she was speaking into her cell phone, not her reporter’s mic, and quickly strode over and snatched the phone from her, violently smashing it on the ground. Elizabeth hadn’t expected such violence—wasn’t this meant to be a light-hearted farce? Some of the smiling children immediately looked fearful at this sight. The chief saw it too, and angrily dragged the man to one side, snapping at him. The man reluctantly nodded. Then Big Chief Sealth walked up to Elizabeth and apologized. “I’m so sorry, he’s a thug. He’s not actually Native American, just someone a friend found to help. I had no idea he’d be so rough.”
“He’s not Native American?”
“Of course not. But don’t worry, I’ve spoken to him.”
During their quiet exchange, Francis kept the camera pointed at them, so these silent scenes made it onto TV. Outside the school gate, Hoffman had been watching on a portable screen when he made the call. At this point, he grew much more alert. So a tour of remembrance had suddenly morphed into a terrorist attack, but then turned out to be some sort of publicity stunt, a roller coaster of emotion for the viewers. Only Hoffman had kept his guard up all along, and with an old spy’s nose for trouble, sniffed out something rotten behind this jolly gathering. Big Chief Sealth’s identity had been verified, and he was, as he said, an employee of United Mutual in Idaho, a cheerful man with no criminal record, who was well regarded by his colleagues. As for his two companions, no one had been found who’d admit to knowing them, and they remained ciphers. Their tense silence was at odds with the chief’s open demeanor, like two images of different color schemes placed side by side. He couldn’t help but feel uneasy. And now this outburst of violence had shown a rift between the chief and his silent escorts, leaving Hoffman ten times more worried than before.
He’d already asked Homeland Security technicians to compare the two men’s faces against their database in an effort to verify their identities. And now the results were in, displayed on his laptop, but they’d hit four or five matches each, a total of nine mug shots and names neatly arrayed before him. Hoffman studied them, guessing which were the most likely matches. Just then, a subordinate ran over and reported, “Two priority calls came in! Both said they had urgent information about the terrorists. One from a Walt Dickerson, a retired senior figure in the CDC, the other from a Fremont FBI agent, Rosa Banbury.”
Hoffman, no stranger to these situations, felt a wave of giddiness, and his heart beat faster. Even without having taken the calls, he knew his premonitions were about to be validated. Calming himself, he rasped, “Patch them to me, Dickerson first . . . Hello, Mr. Dickerson. Agent Hoffman speaking.”
A woman’s voice. “Mr. Hoffman, my father is recovering from heart disease, so I’ll speak on his behalf. A few days ago, we observed a few strange things. Nothing concrete, so we can only ask you to watch closely. There’s a possibility you’re facing a biological weapon attack, possibly arranged by an Afghan American virologist who left the country yesterday. If you’d like a more detailed explanation, please send someone to visit us. That’s all I have to say.”
Hoffman got her address. “Thank you, Ms. Mei. I’ll dispatch someone right away.” Hanging up, he turned to his subordinate. “Officer, I’ll take the Banbury call next . . . Hello, Agent Banbury, Agent Hoffman speaking.”
She was an experienced operative, who came straight to the point. “Hoffman, I’m on a farm near the entrance to Payette National Forest. I can verify the identities of the two Native Americans. They’re Afghans who have been living on this farm. I’ve found something here that you’ll want to see right away. And make sure whoever you send wears a hazmat suit—this may be a biological attack.”
“Thank you. I’ll dispatch someone now.”
Another child was released then, bounding from the classroom to the school gate. A dozen or so people had gone up to the child when the vest went off, showering them in smoke and confetti, setting off another bout of laughter.
There was such a strong contrast between the children’s joy and the bizarre nature of the situation—but it seemed that only Hoffman could feel it. If this bizarre party turned out to be a covert biological attack, if the bubbles, smoke, and confetti were in fact impregnated with Ebola or smallpox . . . What if the terrorists’ attack had begun four days ago, at the start of their tour of remembrance? How many would have been infected? And how many would they have infected in turn? Hoffman was an old hand, and had gone through many simulated biological attacks in his training, but he found himself breaking out in a cold sweat.
He hesitated no longer, and gave the order. “Report to Homeland Security and the president immediately. Strongly urge activating anti-biological-attack measures!”
Earlier that morning, Rosa Banbury had sped along as fast as the rough forest service roads would allow, hurrying to the farm. It was 9:40 a.m. by the time she got to the junction. The gate remained locked, and the “Private Property, No Entry Please” sign was still up, though looking somewhat worn. She entered 219 into the lock, but nothing happened. The code had been changed. She called the farm again. No answer. No time to waste, and never mind if she’d be guilty of trespass—she got a hammer from the trunk and prepared to smash the lock, but a thought struck her just as she was about to bring it down. Putting aside the hammer, she tried 912, and the lock clicked open.
At that moment, she knew her suspicions were correct: 9/12—the sequel to 9/11. Zia Baj and the two men on the farm were determined to follow in the footsteps of al-Qaeda. A decade ago, when they’d set the combination to 219, they must already have been preparing for this day.
Her phone rang—her husband. He sounded agitated, quickly recapping the events of that morning: We’ve been in the middle of a hostage situation, only it turned out to be a hoax, now everything’s fine, Emily was the first to be released, she’s standing next to me now, don’t you worry about a thing. Rosa was, in fact, extremely worried. It was hard to say whether Emily was safe, even at this moment, but she didn’t want to alarm her husband before finding out the truth, so said she’d call him back after she’d finished inspecting the farm. She hung up, and drove into the site.
There was no one on the premises. The cows and alpacas were frantic, butting against their enclosure, obviously starving. This increased Rosa’s sense of danger—real farmers wouldn’t just abandon their livestock like this. Rosa didn’t have time to tend to them, and instead ran around the place, looking for anything unusual. Everything looked the same as before, apart from the large fungi cultivation room, which was completely transformed. The wooden racks and dried wood for growing mushrooms were gone, replaced by a round metal structure, about twice the length of her Chrysler, all sorts of pipes coming out of it. Her training enabled her to recognize this as a biological reactor for the cultivation of animal cells and viruses. She’d feared this most of all. Those bubbles her granddaughter Emily was covered in were very possibly filled with whatever came out of this machine!
She didn’t know when this thing had been bought or installed, having ceased her surveillance of the farm in recent years. From its appearance, it had probably arrived within the last two years. The other facilities were shabby looking, with only one ultraclean workbench and a sterilizer looking like they were recent additions. A bookshelf held a jumble of various medicines, and there were basins full of petri dishes. This was all any terrorist needed for the production of biological weapons.
Rosa went into the main room, where there’d been some changes. An arched niche had appeared in one wall, its edges decorated with shell shapes and scalloped edges, verses from the Koran carved i
nto it. This was where they prayed. Rosa felt guilty for letting her guard down, for disregarding Mr. Hoskirk’s alertness and sense of duty. This was a suicide attack. The two Afghan brothers carrying out the operation surely didn’t plan to survive it. The mastermind, Zia Baj, hadn’t shown up, and might in fact actually have left the country, escaping before the attack. The only thing she wasn’t sure about was what role Big Chief Sealth played in the plan.
Rosa had no time to dwell on this. It was September 12, and the climax of the attack would surely take place today. Emily and the other children were in severe danger. Time was of the essence: First, she called the local station to get Agent Hoffman’s cell number, so she could tell him what she’d discovered. Next, she reported to her superiors in the FBI. “I’ll have to quarantine myself on this farm,” she said, with a mirthless laugh. “I came into contact with the biological reactor earlier, and might already be infected with Ebola, or smallpox, or whatever evil they’ve cooked up. Send someone quick to seal up the place, and investigate what sort of viruses these were, then put me in a hazmat suit and send me to an isolation ward. I’ll wait here for help to arrive, but before you come for me, go save those East Fremont Elementary students. My granddaughter Emily’s one of them.”
She hung up, went to the animal pens, and flung some straw over the walls. The starved cows and alpacas stampeded toward it. Rosa smiled grimly. Better to be a beast, she thought, at least that was more secure—animals don’t become terrorists and hurt others of their own species, nor do they have weapons that can do each other such grievous harm.
A few hundred miles away, in his room at the UCSF Medical Center, Walt Dickerson watched a TV news report about the East Fremont Elementary students in Idaho. Mei Yin was hurriedly packing her bags. Her father’s health hadn’t completely stabilized, and the events of the day had agitated him, so his condition had worsened. She wanted to stay and look after him, but Walt had insisted that she go at once. He said the government would soon be setting their anti-biological-weapon rapid-response plan into action, and the nation might well be put under a state of emergency. Other countries might subject American travelers to increased scrutiny, or even quarantine them. If she didn’t go now, she might be trapped in the United States for some time.
She deeply admired her adoptive father, whose mind was as nimble as ever, even at the age of eighty-six. The task she had to accomplish when she got back to China was time sensitive, and she definitely couldn’t miss her opportunity. Her plane would leave soon, but she still had a moment to spend with her father. Putting aside her packed suitcase, she sat by his bed, glanced at the TV screen, and asked, “Any new developments?”
“No. Everything seems calm.”
The TV was alternating between two scenes, the first inside the classroom with Elizabeth Ginsburg, the second outside, with a male reporter from the regional bureau who’d turned up in a second van after the incident broke. The children and the three “Native Americans” now looked a little tired, and had settled onto the floor for a nap. One of the men would raise his rifle from time to time and send a plume of bubbles into the air, but the kids seemed too tired to stir, only lethargically reaching for a bubble. Dickerson muted the TV and said, “They’ll probably want to keep things quiet for a bit longer. Anything else before you go?”
“I’m sorry to leave in such a hurry,” said Mei Yin with disappointment. “I haven’t been back to our home by the sea, or to Mom’s grave.”
“I’ll tell her you said hi. Your mom would understand.”
“Could you also tell her that I’ve decided to marry Sun Jingshuan as soon as I get back to China? Before I . . . It’d be best if I could give the Sun family a child.” She shook her head. “Am I even still American? I feel I’m going too far.”
“Americans are the same, anyway, always clamoring for grandchildren. The day before, a doctor told me I’d live to a hundred, and of course he was just saying that, but I do want to live until—until the day I can bring my grandson to Africa to see the wildebeests and cheetahs.”
Mei Yin sighed. “It doesn’t seem that long ago that you brought me to Africa, and in the blink of an eye I’m almost fifty.”
“Cassie,” said Dickerson, looking straight at her. “This isn’t what a father ought to say when his daughter’s saying good-bye, but I want you to know: I’m in fine health, and if anything were to happen to you or your husband, I’d take care of your child.”
Mei Yin didn’t brush away these ill-omened words, but neither did she agree right away. Instead, she smiled. “That will never do. What about Granny Sun? She’d never send her grandson so far away.”
Father and daughter were silent, gazing at each other, their eyes full of mutual understanding. Finally, Walt Dickerson said, “Let’s not talk about this anymore. You should go now. Your plane leaves soon.”
Mei Yin stood and kissed him good-bye. He was both her adoptive father and also the Godfather, the man who’d guided her on her path. This parting might be farewell forever. Her eyes were moist as she looked at the old man, whose eyes were teary too. Neither would express their sadness, but they hugged a little more tightly than usual. Then Mei Yin took up her small bag and walked out of the ward without looking back. Her cab driver, who’d been waiting for some time, quickly started up his engine.
Late September 2016, Nanyang, Henan-Hubei provincial border, China
With a hundred things on her mind, Mei Yin had forgotten to let Sun Jingshuan know she was returning to China. It was midnight when she drove up the weed-stricken lane to the courtyard gate of the Sun household and honked twice. Before the sound had faded, a window lit, and soon there was a clatter of footsteps, and the front door swung open. Wearing only briefs and a jacket, Sun Jingshuan exclaimed joyfully, “I knew it would be you! Must be telepathy.” Then he corrected himself. “Or rather, I should say it was deduction. When I heard what was happening in America, I knew you’d come straight back to China. Quick, come in. Sorry about my clothes, I’ll go get dressed.”
Mei Yin stepped out of the car, and without a word, hugged him tight, pressing her face to his naked chest. A shiver went through Jingshuan’s body, and he knew she’d made her decision. He embraced her in return, lightly ruffling her hair. They stood amid the pine forest, caught like statues in the car’s snow-bright headlamps. From within the courtyard came Granny Sun’s voice. “Shuan! Who’s here? Has something happened at the facility?”
Jingshuan killed the engine and locked the courtyard gate, bundling his lover into the house. He called out, “I’m already up, Granny. You stay in bed!”
Whether or not the old woman heard him, she said nothing further. The couple went into Sun’s bedroom and began kissing passionately, until the earth seemed to stop moving around them. After a while, Mei Yin pushed him aside. “Get dressed. I wouldn’t want you to catch a cold.”
Pulling on a sweater and long johns, Jingshuan asked, “Did you see the latest news?”
“Only on the plane, news from the day before.”
He sat her in front of his computer, and moved the mouse. “You should see this. I’m sure it’ll have something to do with you.”
Almost all the headlines were about the incident:
Nightmare Comes True! Homeland Security Confirms 9/12 Incident Is a Smallpox Attack!
Infection Zone Has Been Sealed Off!
“Big Chief Sealth” and Two Terrorists Are Infected, Pox Marks Have Appeared on Their Faces!
Terrorist Mastermind Zia Baj Has Vanished!
American President Declares State of Emergency, All Flights Suspended!
Government Begins Smallpox Inoculation Program in Idaho and Neighboring States!
Countries Worldwide Condemn Biological Warfare!
WHO Spokesperson Urges All Nations to Act Together Quickly to Squash the Epidemic!
Mei Yin clicked through to the full reports. She’d left America only two days ago, but the situation had developed rapidly. No surprise there: the tour of rememb
rance had started six or seven days ago, which was about the incubation period of smallpox. Everything would move very fast from now on.
Jingshuan asked, “How did you know Zia Baj was the mastermind?”
“He used to be the Godfather’s student. A few days ago, I met him at a forum in America. His speech was so bloodthirsty, it aroused my suspicions.”
Reaching around her, Jingshuan took the mouse and started a video. His voice full of pity, he said, “It seems that, of the three, Big Chief Sealth wasn’t actually a terrorist, just a gullible victim. Unlucky guy. Watch this, I think he’s telling the truth.”
The clip was shot in the evening, the setting sun like blood. The pox marks on Sealth’s face were now very obvious, and he’d been so tormented by high fever and fits of shivering that he had barely any energy left. His mind was lucid, though, and he stammered into the camera. “. . . a friend, Zia Baj, came up with the idea for the tour of remembrance. I thought it was a good plan, and agreed. Baj even funded it generously, and hired two assistants, providing everything we needed . . . I wanted to stand up for the First Peoples, to show white Americans their historical guilt, to bring true understanding to these two communities, with a single bison skin . . . But I didn’t know what devils they were. They told me we all have smallpox now, and the bubbles we were blowing at the kids . . . they contained the virus too!” His breath grew ragged. “My carelessness is unforgivable . . . I’m willing to die for what I did. I ask only that my mistakes don’t cause greater hatred between the white people and Native Americans. May God forgive me.”
The camera panned to the other two men, who were standing in the doorway, bare chested, bombs strapped to their torsos. Behind them were dozens of terrified students, some already showing symptoms. The two false Native Americans also looked feverish, their faces flushed, covered in blisters, their symptoms more advanced than Sealth’s. One of them, even at the edge of exhaustion, growled fiercely, “We’ll keep our promise, and will release one student every hour, until they’re all gone. Before that, no one may enter the classroom! If the police try anything, we’ll detonate our explosives!”