Flags of Sin - 05

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Flags of Sin - 05 Page 23

by J. Robert Kennedy


  “My great-great-grandfather was the Tongzhi Emperor.”

  Professor Acton smiled.

  “Nice try, but he had no children.”

  “That is where your history fails you, Professor. He did indeed have a son, born only days before he was murdered by the Empress Dowager’s forces, his memory sullied by rumors of his death from smallpox and later syphilis, when his name continued to carry more honor than his mother could stand.”

  “Okay, I’ll bite. If he had a son, how come no one knows about it?”

  “He was hidden away, raised by my adopted great-great-grandmother Li Mei, the governess of the baby emperor.” Bo raised a hand to cut off the professor. “Let me finish. That baby was named Shun-sheng by her and one of the imperial guards, Mao Jun, who married and raised him as their own, in Shaoshan, Hunan Province.”

  “Shaoshan?” muttered Acton, his eyes narrowing. “Hunan?”

  Bo smiled.

  “What are you a professor of?”

  “Archaeology.”

  “So you know your history.”

  Acton nodded.

  “Then why don’t you answer the question that is burning in your mind?”

  Acton frowned. “Are you suggesting that your grandfather is, or rather was, Chairman Mao Zedong, the founder of Communist China?”

  “Jesus,” muttered the other American under his breath.

  Bo clapped his hands, startling Li who for a second Bo thought was about to shoot him. He held his hands out, open, to calm the excited police officer.

  “Very good, Professor. Yes, indeed, my grandfather was Mao Zedong, who led China for decades, inspired by the knowledge his grandmother Li Mei imparted.”

  “You’re suggesting Mao Zedong was inspired to rule China because he believed he was the legitimate emperor?”

  Bo nodded. “You sound doubtful.”

  Acton shrugged. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

  Bo chuckled, his head bobbing. “Yes, indeed. We are here.”

  “There’s just one problem,” said Acton as the power kicked back on, the computers beginning to reboot around them. “You’re not one of Mao’s grandchildren.”

  “Ah, but I am. My grandfather had a son, Anhong.”

  “Who disappeared when he was three, and was presumed dead at the hands of the Kuomintang.”

  “That was presumed dead, but was actually delivered to my great-great-grandmother Li Mei, to be raised in secret. He had a son, me. I was raised under a false identity, so I could one day reclaim the throne, and lead China into its ordained future, as the most powerful and ancient country under the Heavens.”

  The Asian American returned, his mission accomplished, and whispered something in the other man’s ear. The man nodded, and the Asian American disappeared again.

  “Is any of this possible,” asked the man.

  Professor Acton nodded. “It’s all circumstantial, but yes. The Tongzhi Emperor died when he was eighteen. If he had had a son, it would have threatened the Empress Dowager’s control over him, as he would have an heir, and it might have emboldened him. At the time he was already challenging her control over him, and she was known to be ruthless. If he had a son, and he had been secreted away, they never would have admitted it, since that child would be the rightful heir to the throne. Instead the Empress Dowager installed someone she could control, and ruled in the background until her death. Shortly after that, the empire fell.”

  “But Mao?”

  Acton shrugged his shoulders. “The names fit, the timeframes fit, but without DNA tests, there’s no way to know for sure. However, it might explain why Mao was initially a proponent of democracy and Western ideals, then suddenly turned to Communism and its inevitable dictatorship.” The professor shrugged his shoulders, again looking at the other man. “I just don’t know. He”—he nodded at Bo—“certainly seems to believe it, though.”

  “Because it’s true, Professor.”

  The wall panels snapped to life, and radio communications could be heard faintly over the headsets still either on the heads of the fallen, or dangling beside their terminals.

  “I’ll get you to send that stand-down order now,” said the man covering General Liang.

  Bo looked at the panel showing troop placements, and saw the column rushing to their rescue only minutes away. He shrugged his shoulders, and nodded to Liang. Liang looked at the same display, then back at him, his eyes conveying that he too knew the column was mere minutes from rescuing them. He stepped over to one of the consoles, pulled the headset off the dead lieutenant that had been manning it, and placed it on his head. Tapping a few keys, he was about to speak when the American stepped toward him.

  “And if you think that column on Dawang Road is going to save you, you probably didn’t notice they haven’t moved in the past two minutes. I’m guessing they’ve been engaged.”

  Bo’s eyes darted to the display, and his heart sank as he realized what the American said was true. He hadn’t noticed it before, the scale of the displayed map too small, but the blinking dot had indeed not moved any closer. Liang looked at him, his eyes resigned to their fate, and snapped to attention, saluting. Bo returned the honor, and Liang spoke into the microphone.

  His words sent a surge of pride through Bo’s heart, his chest swelling with the implications, the bravado, the ballsy audacity just displayed by his second-in-command, and the complete and utter cluelessness of their captors as to what had just been said.

  Except one.

  Inspector Li’s eyes shot wide open and he began to spin toward Liang as he shouted the translation.

  “He said to fight to the death!”

  Bo reached forward, grabbing the pistol from the distracted Li’s hand. Liang, seeing this, surged forward and grabbed the American’s gun, trying to twist it out of his hand. A shot rang out and Liang dropped, the weapon he had been struggling for, his downfall.

  All weapons turned toward Bo as he raised the Inspector’s gun to his own head.

  “For my family, for my Emperor, for my China.”

  He squeezed the trigger, his last images that of blood splattering on his beloved flag, then the sensation of his body collapsing backward against the wall, his hand reaching up, grabbing the gold and blue silk, pulling it from the wall. He collapsed to the ground, and with his life moments from ending, he watched as it rippled down, covering him as he would want to be buried, draped in the flag of his ancestors.

  Dongzhimen Hospital, Beijing, China

  The helicopters had left, and the attention had returned to the two Americans that had arrived in a screech of tires and brakes, their car shot up, the occupants covered in blood and dirt.

  Dawson didn’t blame them for not trusting them.

  The question was how far did that lack of trust go? How much did these men know of what was happening in their city? In their country? The highest rank he had seen was a lieutenant, and he seemed just as young and green as the men he led, a group of men who appeared terrified, and if he didn’t know any better, a group of men who had no standing orders beyond protecting the hospital.

  And that could be dangerous. With no rules of engagement, two suspicious Americans could easily be construed as the enemy, and prime sources of intel. Intel that would not be forthcoming.

  Dawson was grabbed by two men and forced toward the hospital entrance. He spoke reassuringly, his hands up, his body language that of someone cooperating. A glance over his shoulder, which was rewarded with the butt of a rifle between his shoulder blades, showed Jimmy between two guards, trying to reassure them he was no threat.

  The doors opened automatically and they were shoved through, the entire lobby stopping and staring at the two disheveled foreigners. The lieutenant led the way deeper inside. Dawson’s trained eye took in everything. The route they were taking, the location of elevators, stairwells, emergency exits, cameras. He knew this could get ugly, and though he didn’t want to kill any innocent Chinese soldiers, he wasn’t about to sacrifice h
imself or Jimmy due to their ignorance.

  If he had to, he would kill to free themselves.

  But for now, he had to assume they were going to be interrogated, and hopefully that meant time. Time for things to settle down. Time for a message to hopefully get through to the embassy. Time for the chaos outside to end.

  The lieutenant opened a door and Dawson was shoved through, followed by Jimmy. The door was slammed shut, and two guards posted on either side, the lieutenant shouting orders in Chinese.

  “You okay?” he asked Jimmy.

  Jimmy nodded. “You?”

  “I’ll live. We’re dealing with amateur hour here.”

  “Which is never good.”

  “Agreed. Speaking of amateurs, I still have Spock’s satellite phone,” said Dawson, reaching into his pocket and pulling it out. “Watch the door.” He placed his back facing the door, and rapidly dialed the embassy number. He put the phone to his ear and leaned on a cabinet, pretending to relax as the phone rang.

  “United States Embassy, Beijing. How may I direct your call?”

  “I don’t have time, I need you to take a message,” whispered Dawson.

  “You’ll have to speak up, sir, I can barely hear you.”

  Dawson felt his chest tighten. He raised his voice a few decibels. “I need you to take a message.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, I’m just the switchboard operator. Let me know how I can direct your call and you can leave—”

  “Listen lady, you tell your Marine Detachment Commander that Ambassador Davidson, Mr. White, and Mr. Black, are being held by Chinese troops at Dongzhimen Hospital. We need embassy assistance immediately or we may be executed. Do you understand me?”

  There was a pause.

  “Yes, sir. Dongzhimen Hospital.”

  “Yes, now get that message to your Marines right a—”

  The door burst open and Dawson spun around to see the lieutenant storm toward him, rifle raised in the air. The butt came down on his nose as he made the split second decision not to react, and the world went black.

  Bo Yang’s Mobile Headquarters, Beijing, China

  “What did he say?” asked Acton, standing over the body, the flag of the Qing Dynasty covering the upper half of Bo Yang’s body like a cloak, shielding him from any further indignities.

  Inspector Li stood up, having checked the man’s pulse to confirm he was dead.

  “For my family, for my Emperor, for my China.”

  “Important words,” said Acton. “This is history we’re living right here, right now, and those words deserve to be remembered, to be written down. I’ll bet what happened tonight will be erased from official history by the authorities, but someday, people will want to know what happened, and historians will want to investigate whether or not his claims were true. Was he indeed Mao’s grandson? Was Mao the grandson of the last true Qing Emperor?” Acton shook his head at the wonder of it all, vowing himself to attempt the undertaking. “Fascinating,” he muttered as he stepped toward the flag, removing a handkerchief from his pocket. He wiped it across the flag, then carefully folded the bloodstained cotton, placing it in his pocket, preserving the DNA.

  “Fascinating indeed, Professor,” said Spock pointing at the screen. “But we need to get the hell out of here now!”

  On the screen the column that had been stationary was moving again, as was a rapidly approaching series of triangles that appeared to Acton to ignore all roads.

  Incoming aircraft!

  Spock grabbed Li and shoved him out the door, Acton following right behind him. They sprinted down the short hallway and burst out the rear entrance, jumping to the ground. Laura and Niner, covering their sixes, both spun around.

  “What’s going on?” asked Niner.

  “Incoming!” yelled Spock, pointing up. Acton looked and gasped as four fighter jets streaked toward them. He grabbed Laura by the arm and they sprinted from the parking lot, back toward where they had left the car, Li, Spock and Niner close on their heels.

  The roar of the engines began to echo between the buildings, and was joined by several higher pitched whines. Acton glanced over his shoulder and saw missiles streaking toward the mobile HQ, their contrails like the lines painted on the road to Hell, the source moving too fast for his eyes to pick out, but their effect when they slammed into the large, armored trailer spectacular. The massive machine jerked sideways, toward them, as if bent in half at the middle, then a ripping sound was followed by a giant fireball that erupted from the holes punched in the far side by the missiles. The entire structure at first bulged as if preparing to release something held tightly inside, when finally, the pressure proving too much for the armored lining, it tore open like a tin can, flame pouring out, a shockwave rolling toward them as the unleashed fury tried to consume all who had been involved.

  Acton was knocked to the ground, as were the rest of them. He hit hard, his chin smacking the pavement. Instinctively he scrambled toward Laura, throwing his body over hers, and looked back at the flames rolling toward them. Spock and Niner were shielding Inspector Li, and were wisely not looking in the direction of the oncoming flames.

  “Hold your breath!” yelled Spock.

  Acton turned away, burying his head under his arms, sucking in a lungful of air. A wave of heat rushed over them, chewing through the oxygen, then just as quickly rushed back, retreating toward the source of all the night’s chaos.

  “Everyone okay?”

  It was Spock. Acton rolled over, letting go his breath with a burst, and sucking in several fresh ones as he looked at Laura who was thankfully doing the same.

  “I’m good,” he said, Laura echoing him. He jumped to his feet and pulled Laura to hers. Li was limping, trying to avoid putting any weight on his right foot.

  “Sprained ankle,” he said as tires squealed behind them. They turned as one and saw a jeep, gold flag flying from the back, bounce over the curb and enter the parking lot, three of its four occupants standing, weapons ready, staring at the burning hulk that had been their headquarters. One of new arrivals pointed at them, shouting, and the driver gunned it toward the armed group. The one in the passenger seat lowered his weapon, taking aim.

  Niner took him out, and Spock emptied a clip into the engine block, bringing the jeep to a halt. Acton grabbed Li, throwing the man’s arm over his shoulder. Laura got on the other side and they began to move the injured man as quickly as they could toward the vehicle parked around the corner. More gunfire erupted from behind them but Acton didn’t look, instead focusing on reaching the corner and safety, however fleeting it might be.

  “Doc!”

  Acton spun to see Niner throw the keys for the car, he watched them arc through the air as he continued to move forward with Li. He jumped and grabbed them, Niner already having returned his attention to the gun battle.

  They rounded the corner and Acton pressed the fob twice, unlocking all the doors. They loaded a groaning Li into the back seat, and Laura climbed in with him as Acton started the car. He put it in gear and hammered on the gas, sending it hurtling toward the corner. Rounding it, he turned to the right then cranked it to the left, the car skidding to a halt, its passenger side facing the two Delta Force Bravo Team members.

  “Get in!” he yelled, reaching over and pushing open the passenger door as Laura did the same with the rear. Niner and Spock backed toward the car, then climbed inside. As soon as Acton saw their feet clear the pavement he hammered on the gas, just as a tank rolled over the jeep they had destroyed.

  “Where to?” he asked as he whipped back around the corner they had just come.

  “Embassy!” yelled Spock.

  “Turn left here!” yelled Li, pointing. Acton spun the wheel, skidding around the turn, and floored it, hoping to put as much distance as he could between them and the tank he had just seen. “Keep going straight, I’ll tell you when to turn. The embassy is only ten minutes from here.”

  Unless we run into more roadblocks.

  Dongzhime
n Hospital, Beijing, China

  When Dawson came to, it was to the sound of thuds followed by grunts. He had the impression of Rocky Balboa pounding flesh in the meat locker, but as the fog cleared and his eyes opened, he found himself looking up to see Jimmy tied to a chair, a Chinese soldier punching him in the face and the stomach, each punch carefully lined up, intended to inflict maximum pain, the black gloves the soldier wore, protecting the bastard’s knuckles from any damage, or evidence he had inflicted the beating.

  Another soldier, apparently meant to cover Dawson, wasn’t doing his duty, instead watching the show and assuming Dawson was still out cold. The lieutenant screamed questions at Jimmy in Chinese, the apparent purpose of this entire exercise not interrogation at all, but punishment under the guise of questioning.

  They were mad, they were scared, and they were dangerous.

  Terrified men without orders.

  Dawson checked his wrists, and they were still unbound. So were his ankles.

  Sloppy.

  A quick survey of the room showed the door was closed, no evidence of anyone outside, and only the three soldiers.

  Dawson kicked his leg out, sweeping the soldier supposedly guarding him off his feet. Rolling over, he planted an elbow directly on the man’s windpipe, crushing it and snapping his neck. Still rolling from planting the elbow, he reached up and grabbed the soldier assaulting Jimmy by the belt, positioning his other leg behind the man’s feet, and yanked. The man fell backward, toward the floor, his arms flailing for something to hold onto. He hit the floor, his head smacking hard on the tile, and Dawson slammed the side of his open hand into the man’s throat, leaving him gasping for air that could no longer reach his lungs.

  Dawson rolled to a knee, punching forward hard, nailing the stunned lieutenant in the groin. He doubled over in agony, a high-pitched wail erupting from his mouth as Dawson stood, shoving his palm upward into the man’s chin. The lieutenant flipped over, landing on his back, dazed and grabbing his boys.

  Dawson fished a gun then a knife off the man’s belt, quickly cutting Jimmy loose.

 

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