“It’s a boy, sir.”
Shun-sheng took the tiny infant and carefully cradled him in his arms, as Mei had done so many years before. “And my wife?”
“She is fine. Resting. You may see her.”
The mid-wife bowed, then went back into the room, followed by Shun-sheng and Mei. Her daughter-in-law, Lin, lay exhausted on the bed, but with a glow that only mother’s understood. She stretched her arms out, and Shun-sheng handed her the baby. Lin placed a gentle kiss on his forehead.
“So, what will you name him?” asked Mei.
Shun-sheng held Lin’s hand and smiled at her, then looked at Mei.
“We shall name him after my uncle, Zedong. Mao Zedong.”
Mei leaned over the bed and stroked little Zedong’s cheek.
“I think he is destined for great things.”
Detroit Metropolitan Wayne County Airport, Detroit, Michigan
Six days ago
“Welcome back. For those of you just tuning in, we’re at Detroit Metro Airport, awaiting the arrival of our Dream Vacation winners, husband and wife Deniz and Alex Berkin, who should be coming through those gates any moment now, returning from their dream vacation, an all-expenses paid trip to China. People have been streaming out the doors for a few minutes now, so we should see them any moment and we’ll find out how their vacation went. While we wait, here’s a reminder of how it all started.”
Steve Madely pulled the headphones off as a recording of the phone call he had made to the winning household was played. He turned to his partner in crime, Shelley McLean.
“Have we heard anything?”
She shook her head and beckoned one of their colleagues over. Rob Snow left a small gaggle of VIPs, including the station manager, several sponsors, and a representative from the airline.
“Anything?” asked Madely.
Snow shook his head. “Nothing. And the airline isn’t being too helpful. They won’t confirm if they even got on the plane. They’re citing privacy laws.”
“What are we going to do?” asked Madely. “I can’t drag this out much longer.”
“Let’s just go with the next segment, and we’ll come back to this—”
“Rob!”
The station manager was waving and Madely turned to see that another airline representative had arrived, a frown on her face.
“This doesn’t look good,” he muttered to Shelley.
“Look at the kids.”
Madely turned his head slightly and saw the Berkin’s two adult children standing, their own tots clearly restless, talking to an airline representative.
“But that’s impossible!” exclaimed the son, whose name escaped Madely at the moment.
Rob Snow rushed up to them.
“They weren’t on the plane!” he hissed as he took a knee between the two hosts.
“You’re kidding me!” Shelley shook her head. “How the hell do you miss your flight in this day and age?”
“Has anybody reached them? Are we sure they’re okay?” asked Madely, his mind immediately putting on his reporter hat, rather than host hat.
Snow shook his head. “No, that’s just the thing. They haven’t been heard from in several days. I just spoke to the tour organizer, and she said they didn’t show up for a planned event yesterday, and they confirmed they never boarded the plane.”
“And the hotel?” asked Madely.
“Hasn’t seen them in over a week.”
Madely had a sinking feeling. They’re dead. He made eye contact with Shelley, and could tell she was thinking the same thing.
“What do we tell our audience?” she asked.
“We tell them the truth,” said Madely. “But only what we know for sure, which is that they aren’t here, and apparently missed their flight, to which we’ll chalk it up to having too good a time, and move on with the show. There’s no point speculating right now, and this entire thing is a co-sponsor event—we have a responsibility to not have this turn into a PR nightmare for them, before we know all the facts.”
Snow nodded and their producer stepped in front of the table they were sitting at, the station’s call-sign emblazoned across the front.
“We’re back in five, four, three...” He finished with hand signals, and Madely took a deep breath.
“Well folks, you’re not going to believe what’s going on here. It looks like they missed their flight!” He chuckled, giving Shelley a look, his eyes widening slightly as if searching for something else to say.
“That’s live radio for you, Steve,” said Shelley, jumping to the rescue. “You don’t get this type of stuff happening on reality TV. Only here on the radio can you have the stars of your show just not show up.”
“Well, it was one fabulous package Middle Earth Vacations put together for them, so I guess they just didn’t want it to end,” laughed Madely. “Let’s run through once again what they’ve been doing, then we’ll hand it over to our news department at the top of the hour.”
Shelley began running down the list of vacation features as Madely leaned back in his chair, a pit forming in his stomach.
They’re definitely dead.
He looked over at the kids and could tell by the expressions on their faces they were worried.
Madely looked at the floor, his chin resting in his hands as he tried to get a hold of the situation. He had picked the name out of the proverbial hat, had made the phone call, had rejoiced with them, had met them personally before they had left, and seen them off at the airport. The excited couple, down on their luck, had been in his mind two of the most deserving winners he had ever seen in his nearly fifty years of broadcasting.
And he felt responsible for whatever might have happened to them.
Shaoshan, Hunan Province, China
October 2, 1908
“So, mother, what do you think?”
Mei stood beside her adopted son, her Little Emperor, Shun-sheng, and smiled as she looked out over the vast fields he now owned. He had ambition, of that there was no doubt. And what did you expect, the son of an emperor? Through his boldness, and lack of fear, he had built the largest farm in the region by purchasing the produce of the local farmers too intimidated to sell it in the cities, then doing just that. And he was now very wealthy compared to his counterparts.
“You have done well, your father would have been proud.”
But your true father would have demanded more.
With her beloved Jun gone over fifteen years now, she had been forced to keep the secret herself, and it was getting more and more difficult as she felt herself aging. But it was something her and her dear husband had decided was for the best, and she agreed, but the promise she had made to her late Emperor still gnawed at her from time to time, especially when she would hear news of the Empress Dowager Cixi and the puppets she used to replace the true heir to the throne.
“Mother, may I ask you something?”
“When have you ever needed my permission?”
He pointed at one of the chairs that occupied the porch of his estate. Mei lowered her tiny, creaking frame into the chair. Shun-sheng sat beside her, but didn’t look at her.
“I need you to tell me the truth, no matter how painful. Do not worry, it won’t affect how I feel about you or Dad, but I need to know.”
Her stomach suddenly felt hollowed out, and her heart beat a little faster.
“Very well.”
He gave her a quick glance, then looked away again, across the fields.
“I heard you talking in your sleep last night.”
The pit in her stomach got a little deeper.
She said nothing.
“Who are my real parents?”
She knew if she could see herself, she’d be ghostly pale, as she felt herself almost become faint. She gripped the arms of the chair she sat in, and steeled herself.
And she said nothing.
His head turned toward her, and she looked into his eyes, eyes filled with questions, eyes filled with pai
n. And she knew he had to know. The secret that had become almost too much to bear, the unkept promise of over thirty years, the guilt in lying to her son, to her family, to herself, every day.
And she said nothing.
“Please, mother. I need to know.”
She sighed, then reached out and took his hand.
“Are you sure you want the truth?”
His head bobbed, but she could tell he was several shades paler, as he realized there was indeed a truth he knew nothing about.
“Very well. Please realize, first, that to me you are my son, the same as any of my other sons. I feel no differently about you, than I do them.”
He nodded, and paled some more.
“Your father and I, are not your real parents.”
His hand began to slip from hers, but she held onto it tighter, not letting him draw away.
“Then—”
She leaned closer, lowering her voice.
“We had to pretend to be your parents, because you were in danger.”
His eyebrows rose slightly.
“Danger?”
She nodded, then took a deep breath. “You are the son of the Tongzhi Emperor, the last true Emperor to hold the throne, and you are the rightful heir to that throne as his first and only son.”
He dropped back in his chair, his eyes darting between her and various objects on the porch or in the yard. They finally settled on the gold and blue flag fluttering at the entrance to the town in the distance.
“How is this possible?”
“Your father had a son, and he kept it hidden from his mother—”
“The Empress Dowager Cixi?”
“Yes.” Mei paused then looked at her son, her expression curious. “What is your opinion of her?”
He looked at her, startled, the question apparently catching him off guard.
“I-I don’t know. I’ve heard bad things, and good things. She’s the Empress Dowager, the most powerful person in China. I just assumed, I guess, that she’s good, and that the stories were spread by her enemies.”
Mei shook her head. “She’s an evil, evil woman, who will do anything to keep power, including kill her own son. And grandson.”
Shun-sheng’s jaw dropped, and Mei nodded, affirming her last statement.
“How do you think your father, your real father, died?”
Shun-sheng looked at her, then the floor, turning a shade redder than usual. “The official story is smallpox, but I heard from some friends it was syphilis, caught from one of the whorehouses he frequented outside the walls of the Forbidden City.”
“And now that you know the truth of who you are?”
He frowned.
“I don’t know. I guess the syphilis story was spread to destroy his legacy?”
“Exactly. And the smallpox story wasn’t true either.”
“What do you mean?”
“What I mean, my son, is that your father died, with sword in hand, saving your life, by delaying the soldiers sent by your grandmother, his mother, to kill you.”
Shun-sheng’s eyes narrowed, and his face flushed.
“He was murdered?”
“Yes, and I and many others fled with you, but we were betrayed. Only your father—your adopted father—and I survived, and while trying to get you to safety, fell in love, married, and swore to raise you as our own.” She patted his knee. “And we couldn’t be more proud of what you’ve become.”
“But I would have been emperor,” he whispered.
Mei shook her head. “Your grandmother would never have allowed it. You would be dead now, of that there is no doubt.”
He shoved himself from his chair and stood. Mei did the same, only slower, and by the time she was on her feet, he had already gone into the house, returning moments later with a money belt, and a small bag.
He marched off the porch without a word, and Mei called after him. “Where are you going?”
But he never replied.
She watched as he stormed off the property, then turned toward the village. And with horror, she gasped as he walked up to the pole holding the fluttering flag of the Qing Dynasty, the symbol of his true family, and hacked the cord with a knife, sending the flag quivering to the ground.
What have I done?
Fort Bragg, North Carolina
Three days ago
Command Sergeant Major Burt “Big Dog” Dawson, BD for short, leader of Delta Team Bravo, peered through his scope, eyeing Niner’s target. Five dead center, one off by an inch.
“You’re slipping, Sergeant.”
Niner, his parents South Korean immigrants from the war, his self-chosen nickname a variation on “nine iron”, a racist insult spat at him during a bar fight, gave Dawson the “Is that a second head growing out of your shoulder” look.
“If putting five in the right testicle, and one in the left, is slipping, I’ll take slipping any day.”
Dawson chuckled.
“Or, five in the HT, one in the hostage.”
“Wind shift,” piped in Jimmy, Niner’s customary spotter, his own nickname given after the unit had found out he was editor of his school paper, Jimmy Olsen apparently sticking in someone’s mind.
“Yeah, Jimmy broke wind, caused me to shift.”
Dawson shook his head, Niner’s crude, constant humor, legendary.
“Lucky you’re the best shot in the unit, otherwise I’d put you on the bench for your sense of humor.”
“You know you love me.”
Dawson’s eyebrow shot up, as did Spock’s who had just walked up.
“BD, the Colonel wants to see you, ASAP.”
Dawson nodded and handed Spock the clipboard.
“You take over. Everyone requalifies today.”
“Hey, what about you?” asked Niner with a teenage whine.
“Check the first page,” said Dawson as he walked off the outdoor range.
“Holy shit, I thought he said I was the best shot in the unit!” exclaimed Niner in the distance. Dawson smiled and climbed into his 1964½ Mustang convertible, in original poppy red, and fired up the engine. Several minutes later he was in front of HQ, and in Colonel Thomas Clancy’s office.
“Have a seat, Sergeant Major.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Dawson as he sat down in front of the Colonel’s desk. Clancy was a man he respected, a man he even admired. If Dawson had gone the officer route, he hoped he would have turned out to be a man like Clancy—no nonsense, respected by his men, and loyal to them as well. When Clancy was Control on a mission, Dawson always knew his back was covered from home.
And Clancy would stop at nothing to get him out of whatever shit he had managed to get himself into.
London was a prime example of that.
For those of his men that had survived, at least.
Dawson eyeballed the desk.
Something’s different.
Clancy seemed to pick up on it, waving at a prominently empty section.
“Humidor. Promised my wife I’d try to quit smoking cigars, or at least cut back. With them calling out to me from two feet away I knew I’d surrender like a Frenchman when he hears a German, so I declared my office Vichy France and banned the cigars, rather than admit complicity with my wife’s desires.”
Dawson grinned, enjoying Clancy’s sometimes unique take on history. Dawson had loved history as a kid, and with his recent escapades with two archaeology professors, his interest had been rekindled, and he spent many a night sitting in front of the TV with a beer and his iPad, browsing Wikipedia, reading about long dead people, and events too many had forgotten about.
“Well, sir, unlike the French, I’m sure you won’t need Ike to come in here and save your ass.”
“Funny you should mention him. Just watched a great movie about him the other day with Magnum PI. If any Frenchman wonders why half the world thinks they’re arrogant, they should watch that movie. The actor playing that de Gaulle bastard portrays the stereotype perfectly.”
Dawson leaned forward, nodding. “Ike with Tom Selleck. I watched that too. Wanted to put a few rounds through my plasma when de Gaulle was on screen. Fortunately that’s frowned upon on base, so I’m not in the market for a new TV.”
Clancy chuckled, then became all business.
“I have a mission for you.”
Dawson leaned back in his chair, the smile gone.
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got a situation developing in China that we’re concerned about.”
Dawson’s eyebrows shot up.
“China?” He’d been all over the world on missions, but hadn’t expected China to be one of them.
“Yup.” Clancy pushed a file across his desk and Dawson took it, flipping it open. “Tourists, American tourists, are turning up dead, shot by a sniper using a high-powered rifle. Very professional. It appears to be politically motivated, at least that’s what our sources tell us. The Chinese were denying everything, and only yesterday finally acknowledged they have the bodies of over three dozen foreigners in their morgues across the country.”
“What’s the motive?”
“It seems to be one of those China for the Chinese type things.”
“Has this gone public?”
“Sort of, just not the extent of it. A couple from Michigan failed to return from a radio contest vacation earlier in the week. That’s what set off the alarms. A bunch of disparate stories from around the world started to be reported, and now the Chinese have been forced to acknowledge, privately, that they have a problem. Shit’s going to hit our news any minute now.”
“And what do you want us to do?”
“We’re concerned about our diplomatic assets over there. I want you to take a team of four, unarmed, on diplomatic passports, to Beijing and review our security arrangements for the embassy and our other key assets over there, especially the Ambassador. Apparently that idiot drives by Tiananmen every day on his way home. Identify the holes, recommend how they can be plugged before that moron gets himself, or more likely one of his security staff, killed, then get your asses out. We don’t want another Benghazi.”
“Why us? Why not Secret Service? Isn’t this their job?”
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