“With this latest terrorist act,” Paul said, “working security on an oilrig has turned into hazardous duty. That means more than a few people who would normally do it are getting jittery. That’s good, though, because Blacksand just raised their rates. The oil companies want beefed security on all their rigs. They don’t want this happening again.”
“There must be tons of people eager for security work,” Cheri said, “especially if it pays well.”
“So why hire an ace like me?” Paul asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
“Yeah?”
“Paul, I don’t want you to die.”
“…me neither,” he said after a moment.
“What’s the second reason?” Cheri asked. “The real reason Blacksand is willing to overlook your discharge?”
“That’s the funny thing, the kicker. They want a snow-weather veteran.”
“Why’s that funny?”
“I guess it isn’t really,” he said.
“You fought in the Canadian Shield, in that rocky winter-land,” she said.
The Canadian Shield was a huge geological region that curved around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. Few people lived in the region, as it was unsuitable for agriculture. The Shield was dotted with lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines.
“It was northern Quebec where it was as cold as Hell,” he said.
“Hell is hot. You fought in blizzards and snowstorms. Where do people have oilrigs in places like that? I thought most oil derricks were found in deserts.”
Paul hesitated to tell her.
“Is it going to be cold where you’re going?” she asked.
“I’m flying to the Arctic Circle,” he said.
The energy crunch meant the oil companies were hunting for crude wherever they could find it. The new bonanza was the Arctic Circle and Antarctica.
“Do you mean Alaska?” Cheri asked.
“I wish I did. No. The Arctic Circle…the rig is in the Arctic Ocean.”
“Isn’t it icy up there all the time?”
“Yeah,” he said. He remembered reading somewhere that the ice used to melt in summer, or a lot of it did. That must have been before it had gotten cold again. A new glacial period, they called it. He remembered watching a history show about the Black Death in the Middle Ages. There had been harsher weather back then, too. It had hurt the crops and vineyards just as it did these days. The whole thing went in cycles, apparently. Now it was their turn, and according to what he’d looked up, it made the Arctic almost as cold as space.
“You mean the oil well is frozen in the ocean ice?” Cheri asked.
“I’m going to the closest rig to the North Pole,” he said. “I’ll be knocking on Santa Claus’s door.”
“Is it dangerous?”
It had to be dangerous if they were willing to hire him. Near the North Pole—did the wind howl all night long? It was supposed to be dark half of the year.
“I can’t see how,” he said.
“So why do they need you then?”
“It’s all about insurance. If you look at things deeply enough it always goes back to the money.” Had that been true about them? Once the government had kicked him out of the Marines, he’d had one job after another, and they’d steadily been crappier jobs each time. The money had started drying up and so had their marriage.
Cheri glanced at the envelope in her hand. Looking thoughtful, she slid her purse off a shoulder, clicked it open and buried the two thousand in it. “Does Blacksand pay well?”
“You know it.”
As she slid the loops back onto her shoulder, she looked up into his eyes. “Take care of yourself up there, and try to keep this one, okay? We need the money.”
He forced himself to nod. “Are you and Mikey doing okay?”
“I’m almost finished with Beauty College. I’m already cutting hair on the side.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
Her lips firmed. “We agreed you weren’t supposed to ask that.”
A stab of heat burned in his chest. She’d laid that down as a condition for him seeing Mikey. The courts had screwed him, giving her full custody. He supposed none of that mattered now that he was headed for the Arctic Circle.
“I’ll call you when I get there,” he said.
“Mikey will like that.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
She cocked her head, and her lips parted. “Try to get along more at work, okay? You’re too much of a loner.”
He hated when she said that. “I’ll tell him goodbye.”
“Don’t leave mad,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Okay,” she said, her face tightening, “if that’s the way you want it, I’m fine with that.”
He took a deep breath and counted to three. “I’m not mad. I’m glad you came.”
Cheri studied his face. He waited for a smile to break out as it used to in the beginning. Instead, she said, “Goodbye, Paul.”
The way she said it—he paused. There was something final in her words, something almost fated. He picked up his helmet, managed to give her a nod and turned toward the candy wagon. Mikey was racing back with a bag of gummy bears clutched in his fist. His son was laughing. He liked that.
“Run harder, little man!” shouted Paul.
Mikey put his head down and he ran full out. The tennis shoes slapped the floor as he approached. Paul dropped his helmet, grabbed Mikey under the armpits and threw him into the air above his head. Mikey squealed with delight. Cheri had never liked him doing that, but who knew when he’d see his boy again. Paul caught Mikey and hugged him tightly.
“I love you, big guy.”
“Me too,” Mikey said, breathlessly.
Paul set him down and knelt on one knee. “You take care of your mother, okay?”
“I will.”
“I’ll visit you in a few months when I have some time off.”
“Promise?” Mikey asked with something close to desperation.
“Of course I promise,” Paul said.
“And call, Daddy.”
“I will,” Paul said, standing up.
“Wait, Daddy!” Mikey said. He opened his striped bag of gummy bears. “You have to eat one of these with me first.”
Paul recognized the delaying tactic, and for a moment, there was a stab of pain in his heart. If he were a better person, things might have worked between Cheri and him.
“Thanks,” Paul said, smiling at his son as he took an orange gummy bear.
“Eat it, Daddy.”
Paul did, hardly tasting a thing.
“Take some with you for the road,” Mikey said.
“You be a good boy,” Paul whispered.
Mikey nodded.
The striped bag crinkled as Paul dug out some more gummy bears. Then he turned away, heading out. He couldn’t take any more of this.
“Bye, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.
Paul turned back one last time, lifting his motorcycle helmet, waving goodbye. He waved an extra time for Cheri, as she stepped up to Mikey. Then Paul Kavanagh was stumbling for the mall entrance, oblivious to the gang members he brushed out of his way.
Someday, he was going to do things right.
HANZHONG, P.R.C.
The growing, seething mob chanted angrily. Many waved their fists at the video cameras, the ubiquitous cams that hung from streetlights, buildings and sometimes from tethered balloons. A few of the rioters shook rocks or sticks. The glass buildings surrounding the street reverberated with their chants. The packed mob—they filled the street and sidewalks like rush-hour pedestrians in any major Chinese city. Chest-to-chest, shoulder-to-shoulder, they swayed with repressed power. They were hungry, cold and bitter.
It was blustery, and most of the crowd wore gray overcoats. Over eighty percent were men under thirty and they were uniformly thin. They pressed against
each other, shoving at times, often asking if it was true. Were the trucks leaving with their rice?
The front of the shuffling horde stood before the main gate to the massive rice processing plant. Several years ago, the institute had installed an iron fence, bars ten feet tall and with barbed points on top. Some chanters thrust their arms between the bars, shaking their fists at the militiamen on guard or recording them on their cell phones.
The thin line of militia behind the main gate stirred uneasily. It was supposed to be a routine shipment. The militiamen had arrived early this morning to provide security during transport and hadn’t expected anything like this. The eighteen militiamen gripped shiny rifles. Despite the chill, most of their faces glistened with sweat. Behind them rumbled a fleet of hidden semis, big ultra-modern haulers filled to capacity. They planned to transport the rice to the coastal region.
There was another man listening to the semis rumble. He was a former American. He stood at the front of the mob. At times the pressure from behind pushed him against the gate. He didn’t know it, but more people kept arriving. They joined the throng and packed the street as they added their chants. The echoing sounds were like thunder to others in the city, drawing the curious and frightening the rest, particularly the police and local Party members.
The former American, Henry Wu, gripped cold bars as bodies pressed against him. He grunted and pushed with his arms, straining as he shoved his back against the men behind, trying to gain breathing room. Henry had immigrated to China four years ago in 2028. He was a tractor driver, living in the city his father had escaped twenty-five years ago. Most of the Chinese in Hanzhong were Han. Henry was Manchu, a trifle taller than those around him and possessed of a singular difference, a gun.
Gaining space, Henry released the bars and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. In the left pocket his fingers curled around a Glock 19, an old automatic smuggled into China when he’d immigrated. Henry was sick of being hungry, and along with every else he was angry that their rice was being shipped to the coast. He knew he shouldn’t have brought the Glock, but he had it just the same.
He’d left America to find work. In China, there were jobs, but since the glaciation had worsened several years ago, there wasn’t enough food. A week ago, he’d talked to his sister over the phone. She lived in Detroit. There was food in the U.S., but after the Sovereign Debt Depression, there was seldom enough work.
Is it too much to ask for both? Henry thought to himself.
A militiaman blew a whistle, the normally piercing blast barely audible over the mass chanting. The burly militiaman stepped out of the line of guards as he brought a rifle-butt to his shoulder. The other militia stared at him, some with amazement. They were young men and clearly frightened by today’s events.
Henry craned his neck, looking to see what the commotion was about. Oh. A pimple-faced teenager shimmied up the bars. Reaching hands shoved him higher. The teenager moved carefully over the barbs, trying not to stick himself.
The aiming militiaman opened his mouth, letting the silver whistle drop to his chest. He shouted, at least it looked like he did. The volume from the chanting horde drowned out his words. His actions spoke loudly enough. Something must have made the militiaman pause. He glanced back at his companions. None of them had dared raise a rifle. The militiaman gestured angrily at them, berating his fellows. Was he the First Rank? He looked older than the rest, and the marks on his uniform were different.
A militiaman in the line shook his head at the First Rank. The others just looked at the older man.
Snarling, the First Rank with a mole beside his nose took two steps toward the gate. He aimed his rifle at the teenager and fired. The sound was loud. Those nearest quit chanting and the teenager slumped onto the barbs. He twitched in death, gigged on the iron fence.
While others shifted their cell phones, recording this, Henry found himself aiming his Glock. He squeezed off a shot. The banging retort hurt his ears. It made men around him flinch. The gun bucking in Henry’s hands shocked him.
The First Rank staggered backward as the bullet plowed through his stomach, blowing out cloth, flesh and intestines. The rifle fell as the First Rank hit the pavement, his head pointed away from the mob and toward the hidden semis.
The crowd went wild as it watched the hooked teenager. Men clutched the bars and madly rattled the fence. It groaned, leaning inward.
The remaining militia backed away from the enraged chanters. Then the militiaman on the left end of the line hurled his rifle away. Spinning around as his rifle bounced across the cement, the young man sprinted for the depths of the rice-processing plant. The panic was contagious as the example routed through sixteen numbed and frightened brains. Two other militiamen followed the deserter. That must have wilted whatever courage remained among the others. They turned to run, although several kept their weapons.
As the last militia disappeared around the nearest building, the crowd surged against the iron bars. The bars groaned and leaned farther inward. The front rank, including Henry, scrambled over bars so many of the poles crashed to the ground. Henry raced at the front of the horde, determined to grab several bags of rice.
The flight of the militia spread back through the mob like wildfire. It emboldened the horde, and the chanting increased in volume. Like a living beast, the mob surged forward.
Ten minutes later and at the rear of the mob, ninety Hanzhong policemen arrived. Jumping out of armored carriers, they drew batons and tasers. Blowing whistles, the police charged into the crowd, tasing and swinging batons.
It should have worked. This was China, and the normally cowed populace had generations of obedience trained into them. Today it was different because the mob had tasted victory. It was like a tiger drinking human blood. It liked the taste and wanted more. Perhaps as importantly, several of the dropped rifles made it into the rioters’ hands.
Shots rang out. Policemen fell to the paving. Buoyed by success, young men in the mob picked up rocks, bottles, anything. They rained debris onto the surprised police as popping shots sounded. More baton-wielders fell dead. Young men howled and they charged en mass. They bowled over policemen and ripped away batons. The beatings began immediately, as did merciless tasing of their tormentors.
Some police made it back to the carriers. They climbed aboard, fought off their attackers and drove for the nearest police headquarters. It was a massive building with two gleaming lion statues in front. There the police barricaded themselves behind heavy doors and the latest security systems.
Eighteen policemen died on the street. They were clubbed, tased until heart failure or shot. It was a heady feeling for the rioting masses, and they wanted more, much more.
The police radioed for outside help, and news of the trouble quickly reached the highest levels. As the police in the barricaded headquarters passed out rifles and took positions at the loopholes, a convoy of heavy trucks left the city of Guangyuan forty kilometers away. A different convoy roared from Baoji. Together, the two convoys raced three thousand riot police toward Hanzhong and its gigantic rice processing plant.
Many in Hanzhong had TVs and computers. Most blogged. China had become the richest nation on Earth by 2032, but those riches were spread unevenly. The vast majority of the new wealth generated these past twenty years had gone to the entrepreneurs and hard workers on the coast. Five hundred million coastal Chinese had tasted the good life, while one billion living inland faced continuing hard times. With worsening weather patterns, the inland dwellers faced famine. The worldwide cooling hurt agricultural production worse in some places than others. China had the unfortunate privilege of being among the hardest hit with lengthening cold snaps.
By now, the Hanzhong police were phoning one another, wondering what to do. They were frightened by the boldness of the rioters. They dreaded the looting and reached a quick consensus: to wait for reinforcements.
The first convoy reached Hanzhong at three twenty-four in the afternoon. The second a
rrived forty-three minutes later. A phone call from a raving police general in Baoji convinced the Hanzhong chief of police to begin riot suppression.
City communication cables were cut. Rushed Army electronic warfare (EW) units landed via helicopter and jammed satellite connections three hours later. Hanzhong was blacked out as the riot police, Army MPs and revitalized Hanzhong police began to shoot looters, rioters and subversives.
The police turned brutal then, wanting retribution. Nothing angered a master like a revolting slave. China was an ordered society, and the police gave the orders.
Then the higher powers began to arrive. Dong Dianshan—East Lightning. The East Lightning branch of the Party Security Service arrived at Hanzhong Airport at seven nineteen p.m. They wore brown uniforms with red straps running from the right shoulder to the red belt around their waist. An armband on their left arm showed a three-pronged lighting bolt. Each was a card-carrying member of the Socialist-Nationalist Party, what the former Communist Party had transformed into. Among their varied talents, East Lightning was practiced at rooting out ringleaders and enemy saboteurs.
The police had imprisoned thousands, but had only interrogated a handful. East Lightning now took over. Agents compared the video evidence, combing files from hundreds of webcams, looking for the perpetrators.
The next morning near ten fifteen a.m., as Henry Wu cowered in his apartment, police smashed through his door with a four-man pulverizer.
Henry already lay on the floor, with his hands behind his head. “I’m innocent!” he shouted. He’d trashed the Glock early this morning.
A police officer booted him in the side. Another shot a taser into his back, the prongs piercing his bathrobe and sticking in his flesh.
“You’re making a mistake!” Henry shouted.
The police shocked him into unconsciousness.
Henry awoke on the ride to Police Headquarters, Fifth District. He was handcuffed, sitting beside a large Korean officer in the back of a van. It was Chinese policy to use policemen of varying heritage. For instance, Han Chinese police worked in predominantly Manchu territory.
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