Empire Rising

by Rick Campbell

  Every transit system was being monitored. Cars were being stopped along every road leading out of the city, and passengers were being examined at the airport and rail stations prior to boarding. Fortunately, there were no road checkpoints between the safe house and the rail station, but exactly how she was supposed to board the train without being detected was still unclear. Her disguise was not particularly effective.

  Christine’s hair had been dyed a lustrous black and makeup applied to add color to her skin. And although she wore a black scarf framing her face, one direct look into her blue eyes would give it all away. A pair of dark sunglasses offered superficial protection, and Peng had assured her a Caucasian woman wouldn’t be an unusual sight at the rail station. Despite China’s invasion of Taiwan, citizens and tourists had continued their daily business and sight-seeing, safe from the carnage offshore.

  As the car turned left onto Kai Yang Lu Street, Christine examined the Beijing South Railway Station in the distance—an oval-shaped structure of steel and glass, larger than most international airports. It was the second largest railway station in Asia, covering the equivalent of twenty football fields. Peng had briefly described the five-story facility—three levels underground and two above—explaining it was the best exit point from Beijing due to the sheer number of patrons; over thirty thousand passengers boarded trains every hour from twenty-four platforms, with a waiting area capable of holding ten thousand. If there was ever a place she could get lost in a crowd, it was the Beijing South Railway Station.

  Christine had been dressed not only to blend into the crowd, but prepared to make a run for it if things didn’t go as planned. Instead of high heels, fashionable black sneakers were paired with black slacks and a tan sweater. She carried no purse—a matching black fanny pack strapped to her waist contained her makeup and a fake passport. Inside the waistband of her slacks was sewn the flash drive she’d been given at the Great Hall of the People.

  It was only a four-kilometer ride to the rail station, and ten minutes after departing the safe house, Christine’s sedan pulled to a stop. Peng turned to Christine. “We won’t have many opportunities to talk clearly from here on, so before we begin, do you have any more questions?”

  Christine shook her head. Without another word, Peng stepped from the sedan and rounded the rear of the car, opening her door.

  * * *

  Peng escorted Christine into the rail station, his arm interlocked with hers, passing through sliding glass doors that opened as they approached. Pausing momentarily near the entrance, Peng’s eyes swept across the terminal. Directly ahead, above a bank of twelve ticket counters, an electronic status board listed in red letters the trains departing, along with the departure time and platform in green. The railway station curved away from them in both directions, with additional ticket counters spaced at twenty-yard intervals. Queuing in front of the ticket counters and hurrying along the concourse were thousands of people, all too busy to notice the arrival of two more people headed out of the city.

  Christine was relieved she wasn’t the only Caucasian woman in the station. At least one in thirty persons was white; young men and women with backpacks slung over their shoulders, typically traveling in pairs, with older folks congregating in large numbers—tour groups, apparently. It seemed it was mostly business as usual in the station, with fair-skinned passengers in line at ticket booths, walking through the concourse, or passing through ticket gates on their way to the train platforms. The only indication something was afoot was the blue-clad police officers at every gate entrance, scrutinizing each passenger as they swiped their ticket to gain access to the train platforms.

  Peng began moving again, pulling Christine gently along with his arm. Rather than procure a ticket at one of the manned booths, Peng approached an automated ticket machine. A swipe of an ID card followed by a credit card produced two powder-blue tickets from a slot in the machine. After returning his wallet to his pants, Peng examined the lines at the nearest entrance gate. He guided Christine to the third line from the right, falling in behind an older Chinese couple.

  Christine and Peng worked their way toward the gate, where passengers swiped their ticket past an electronic scanner. Each woman passing through was examined by a police officer, whose gaze alternated between the woman’s face and a sheet of paper in his hand; a picture of Christine, no doubt. Peng hadn’t explained how they would make it past the officer, and as they drew closer to the gate, Christine’s apprehension began to mount—the police officers were making anyone wearing sunglasses remove them so they could get a clear look at their face.

  The Chinese couple in front of Christine passed through the gate and Peng handed one ticket to Christine, swiping the other as he stepped through. Stopping close to the police officer, Peng spoke in a low voice, his words unintelligible.

  The police officer nodded thoughtfully, then Peng turned to Christine. “This way, Cathy.”

  It took a moment for Christine to realize he was talking to her. Or rather Cathy Terrill, the name on her fake passport. Christine swiped her ticket past the scanner, which blinked green in response, then stepped through the gate. But as she exited, the police officer held his arm out, stopping her.

  “Ticket please. And remove your glasses,” he said in English.

  Christine paused, paralyzed for a second, wondering if something had gone wrong. She had assumed Peng selected this gate because the officer had been bribed or otherwise persuaded to let her pass through. But now he was insisting she remove her glasses. Not only would the officer get a clear view of her face, but so would the surveillance camera at the gate. Christine glanced in Peng’s direction for guidance, but the officer shifted his position, placing his body between them.

  “Remove your glasses,” he repeated as he stood firmly in her way. Christine hastily considering her options, which weren’t many—comply or flee into the crowd. But fleeing into the crowd would attract attention, ruining the plan to slip out of the city undetected. She had no choice. Reaching up with one hand, she slowly removed her glasses, handing her ticket to the officer with the other.

  Attempting to look disinterested, concealing the panic rising inside, Christine glanced at the paper in the officer’s hand as he examined her ticket. There were four pictures on the sheet, one in each quadrant. They were all of her, each one with a different hair color. Blond, brunette, red, and the final one was black, the same hue as her current dye. The last image was like looking into a mirror.

  The officer’s eyes went from her ticket to the paper in his hand, studying it for a moment before raising his eyes to her face. He stared at her for a moment, then reached toward her.

  “Thank you,” he said as he returned her ticket. “Your train boards at platform twenty-one, which is down the escalator to the left.” His gaze shifted to the next passenger as Christine slid her sunglasses back on.

  The officer stepped aside and Christine joined Peng, letting out a slow breath. Peng slipped his arm through hers again as he whispered in her ear. “He had to make you take off your sunglasses. Otherwise it’d be obvious he was letting you pass without examination. But he placed himself between you and the surveillance camera while your glasses were off.”

  “You should have told me ahead of time. I damn near had a heart attack.”

  Peng patted her arm. “I’m afraid things might get hairier than that before we’re through.”

  * * *

  Christine followed Peng down the nearest escalator, arriving at their platform. They stood amongst a throng of people and it wasn’t long before a sleek white bullet train arrived, its sloping nose squealing to a halt just past them. A few minutes later, after passengers debarked from the other side of the train, the doors facing Christine slid open. She followed Peng toward the nearest door, then turned left down the center aisle. The railcar sported two blue upholstered seats on each side, and Peng selected the first pair of open seats, letting Christine slide into the window seat while he settled into the
other. Christine kept her face turned away, gazing out the window as the last of the train’s previous occupants disappeared up the escalators to the concourse or down to the parking levels below.

  After an announcement in Chinese, a second one followed in English, explaining the train was the Beijing–Tianjin Intercity Express; anyone not desiring to proceed to Tianjin should disembark. The doors closed a moment later and the train eased out of the railway station, accelerating toward the outskirts of Beijing.

  17

  BEIJING

  Xiang Chenglei sat behind his desk in the Great Hall of the People, staring at his rival seated across from him. Huan Zhixin, chairman of the Central Military Commission—de facto leader of the People’s Liberation Army and twenty years younger, wore a smug smile befitting his arrogance. He had deliberately withheld information concerning Christine O’Connor’s whereabouts, revealing that fact only seconds earlier.

  “You’ve known all along where she is?” Xiang asked.

  “Yes and no,” Huan answered. “We know she’s been at a CIA safe house here in Beijing. However, our informant has refused to disclose its location. What we do know is that O’Connor has now left the safe house.”

  “Where is she headed?”

  “Our informant doesn’t know the final destination, nor the route she’s taking—only that she’s headed to the coast for a rendezvous with American special forces.”

  “Why have you not told me earlier she was at a safe house here in Beijing?” Xiang asked.

  “I had higher priorities than running down your wayward American.”

  “Her escape from the Great Hall is an embarrassment.”

  “Yes, it is.” Huan offered another smug smile.

  There was a strained silence as Xiang contained his anger, focusing his thoughts on managing the delicate relationship with the head of the People’s Liberation Army. Huan coveted Xiang’s position as general secretary and paramount ruler of China, waiting impatiently for him to retire. In the meantime, it was not beneath Huan to undermine his credibility, even in subtle ways like this.

  It was Huan who broke the silence. “You need not worry, Chenglei. O’Connor will be apprehended. Now that she’s headed to the coast, we will find her. There are only so many ways to make the transit.”

  Huan pushed himself to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, I have important matters to attend to. Lead elements of the American Navy will be within strike distance by tomorrow morning.”

  * * *

  A few minutes later, Huan entered his office on the perimeter of the South Wing of the Great Hall. As chairman of the Central Military Commission, his main office was in the nearby Ministry of National Defense compound, but Huan had arranged for an additional office—with a view—in the Great Hall of the People.

  He settled into the black leather chair behind his desk, contemplating the upcoming briefing by the four PLA branch heads. Everything was proceeding as planned. Not only was the PLA offensive progressing smoothly, but Huan’s scheme to use the PLA offensive as a springboard to supreme leader of China was working brilliantly.

  The first element of that plan—the elimination of Prime Minister Bai Tao—had been executed flawlessly. Bai Tao’s resistance to using military force was the main obstacle to the PLA offensive, and Huan had arranged for the removal of that obstacle. Bai’s death also opened a coveted spot on the nine-member Politburo Standing Committee.

  Huan fumed as he recalled the events of a decade before. His uncle Shen’s vote would decide whether Xiang or his rival would become China’s new ruler, and Shen had proposed a deal. In return for Shen’s support, one of the three positions normally held by China’s paramount ruler would go to Huan, a rising star in the Party. It was not without precedent. Two previous men—Deng Xiaoping and Hua Guofeng—had ruled China while holding only one of the three positions. Xiang had capitulated to Shen’s request.

  However, Xiang had outmaneuvered them both. It was a given that the chairman of the Central Military Commission would be a member of the Politburo, but in a stunning move, Xiang had blocked Huan’s election. Without membership in the Politburo, there was no way Huan could be elected general secretary. Xiang had seen through their ultimate plan and had cut Huan off at the knees. But that would soon be rectified.

  The PLA offensive was the perfect vehicle for Huan’s ambition. Once the vaunted American Pacific Fleet was defeated, Huan’s prestige would increase tenfold, and not even Xiang could block his election to the Politburo.

  Huan smiled. Xiang was a fool, blind to the political implications of defeating the United States. Once Huan was elected to the Politburo, Xiang’s days were numbered.

  18

  TIANJIN, CHINA

  From the seat pocket in front of her, Christine pulled out a brochure containing information written in both Chinese and English. She and Peng were riding in a China Railways CRH3 electric-powered train, reaching a top speed of 350 kilometers per hour during the thirty-three-minute transit to central Tianjin, with select trains continuing on to the Tianjin port district of Tanggu. As the train picked up speed, it wasn’t long before they were sweeping past factories and highways, the buildings and roads a blur.

  Civilization soon gave way to the country as the train sped southeast toward the coast. Peng had purchased two second-class tickets, the lowest of three fares. Even so, smiling attendants in black and purple uniforms worked their way down the aisle, handing bottled water to passengers. Peng took both bottles without a word, offering one to Christine as the attendants stepped into the adjacent railroad car, passing through sliding glass doors. Christine took a sip, then slid the bottle into the seat pocket along with the brochure.

  Eight minutes into their journey, they made the first of three stops along the way. The next twenty-two minutes passed uneventfully, the express train traversing almost the entire route on viaducts above the cities and countryside, the viaducts giving way to standard ground rail as they approached Tianjin. It was dark by the time the train slowed to a halt at the Tianjin Railroad Station. Peng put his hand on Christine’s arm as most of passengers filed out of the railcar, explaining their destination was one stop farther, Tanggu.

  The last of the exiting passengers stepped off the car, but the doors remained open. Peng’s grip on Christine’s arm tightened and she looked up, following Peng’s eyes. In the adjacent car, two armed soldiers were examining the remaining passengers, each soldier periodically referring to a sheet of paper in their hands. Peng stood, pulling Christine with him down the aisle, stepping off the train just as the door slid shut behind them. Fifty feet in each direction, additional pairs of PLA soldiers had stopped several passengers, comparing their images to those on the sheet in their hand. Luckily, an escalator was directly across from their railcar exit and Peng led Christine onto the descending stairs.

  Peng turned to Christine as the escalator moved downward. “They’ve started checking the trains to Tanggu. We’ll have to get there another way.”

  As Christine navigated the busy Tianjin Railway Station with Peng at her side, she could sense Peng’s tension mounting. Although there had been no PLA soldiers in the Beijing South Railway Station, they were posted sporadically throughout the Tianjin station. Peng kept his distance from the soldiers as he navigated the railway station, and he soon found what he was looking for, turning right and passing beneath a sign marking the entrance to the Binhai Mass Transit system, one of the few signs in both Chinese and English. After proceeding down another escalator, Christine realized they had switched from aboveground rail transportation to the subway.

  Another stop at an automated ticket machine procured the necessary tickets to board the Line 9 train, and Christine followed Peng through the turnstiles to the loading platform. The subway was cramped, allowing Peng and Christine to meld into the throng of people. While they waited, Peng made a short phone call with his cell phone. The train arrived a few minutes later, and the mass of bodies moved almost as one into the white and re
d cars.

  Peng grabbed one of the center poles in the subway car as the doors closed behind him, swinging around and stopping Christine in front of him, keeping her faced away from the platform. After a quick glance at the subway car’s other occupants, Christine’s grip on the pole tightened; there were far fewer Caucasians on the subway compared to the Intercity Express railway, the odds of her standing out much greater. That fact was not lost on Peng. With one hand high on the pole and another gripping an overhead strap hanging from the ceiling, he did his best to shield Christine’s face from others inside the car. None of the other passengers paid any attention to Peng or Christine, however.

  The subway train resumed its journey with a lurch, stopping every few minutes at additional stations. Staring over Peng’s shoulder at the reflection in the window, Christine tried to determine whether PLA soldiers or police officers were stationed at the platforms at each stop. There were none she could see, and she sensed Peng relaxing as they worked their way down the Line 9 stops without any sign of passengers being scrutinized as they got off. At each stop, more passengers got off than on, the throng of people thinning until there were fewer than a dozen passengers remaining, most of them sitting on the hard plastic seats lining the sides of the subway car.

  The train ground to a halt at the Donghai Road station, the twenty-fifth and last stop along Line 9, and the doors whisked open. Peng waited until the car emptied, then took Christine by the hand, following closely behind two couples engaged in conversation. There were no soldiers or police officers on the platform, only a few passengers awaiting the train’s arrival. After a short ride up an escalator, Peng and Christine emerged into the open night air, the subway exit illuminated by harsh white lights.