Flames rose on the sound of the chanting. At the edge of the crowd, the PLA soldiers began to push inward, using their AK-47s to clear the way. It was not legal to deface the PRC flag, even in liberal Hong Kong. Even under the New Rule.
The flag was now a sheet of flame, which was released. It sailed into the air, billowing, dropping hot ashes back onto the crowd, onto their pumping fists as they chanted, “Free Hong Kong! Beijing out! Free Hong Kong! Beijing out!” Someone threw a crushed soda can at Sung.
The soldiers were having trouble moving through the sheer bulk of the crowd. Yet one soldier had miraculousy arrived, appearing suddenly from behind the platform. He was a small, wiry man with the flattened nose of a gorilla. Actually, he’d been waiting underneath the platform all day. Sung knew that whether he was a real PLA soldier or not, his true commander was Mr. Blossom. Other men like him were scattered through the crowd, all wearing PLA uniforms and carrying standard-issue AK-47 assault rifles.
Sung didn’t know exactly what was going to happen next, only that it was something Mr. Blossom had orchestrated carefully; something that, along with the pro-democracy chanting, would work to end the ridiculous idea of “Hong Kong self-rule” and bring the SAR back into the arms of the PRC, the real China.
The soldier with the flattened nose continued to shove toward the students who had burned the flag. So did the real PLA soldiers. Meanwhile the students themselves jumped up and down, chanting, pumping their fists. No doubt they hoped that the television cameras all around the square were catching the action. Other students scrambled onto the platform with Sung, shouting incoherently, waving their arms in the air. Sung was irritated. This was not in the plan. These idiots were not even politically motivated; to them, this was a party.
The flat-nosed soldier and three of the PLA soldiers were about to converge on the students below. As Sung watched, there was a sudden, deafening crack, a noise so loud Sung staggered sideways. At the same moment one of the real soldiers fell, the center of his face abruptly as red as the flag that had burned. Instantly, the mob fell silent, as if collectively holding its breath. The PLA soldiers halted. Everything halted. All the faces turned toward Sung.
Sung felt hands close hard around his right hand and arm. Something cold and heavy slapped into his hand, and his fingers closed around it reflexively. His arm was dragged up. He stared in amazement at what was in his hand: a large black pistol, smoke wafting from its barrel. “Here!” the student beside him shouted, waving Sung’s arm wildly, as if fighting with it. “He did it! Help me!”
Sung wanted to say something, wanted to point out that he didn’t even know what was going on, but his attention was caught by the flat-nosed soldier. Flat-nose was turning toward him, raising his AK-47. The small black eye of the assault rifle’s barrel was staring at Sung. Farther back, so was the non-soldier’s cold eye. Sung started to say, “You don’t understand.”
The first round caught him in his open mouth.
1500 local (-8 GMT)
Singapore
“So far, the death toll stands at seventeen.” Navy Captain Joe Tacstrom, Singapore’s U.S. Naval base commander, held out the latest sitrep, or situation report. “Some reports have the PLA starting the shooting; others claim it was one of the pro-democracy students. Either way, both civilians and PLA soldiers ended up dead. If this happened anywhere but Hong Kong, the PRC would have already declared martial law and parked tanks in the streets.”
“Are you sure I’ll even be able to fly into Hong Kong?” Tombstone asked. He and Tomboy were sitting in Tacstrom’s office. Tomboy was wearing her khakis preparatory to flying out to Jefferson, Tombstone was dressed in a business suit someone from the base had rushed into town to buy for him. Originally he’d intended to enter Hong Kong as a tourist, but that had all changed. Considering the most recent turn of events, the only Americans likely to run the gauntlet into that part of the world would be those with financial interests to protect.
He felt ridiculous.
“So far, most non-American airlines are still flying into Kai Tak,” Tacstrom said. “Remember, Hong Kong fuels the economies of most of the countries on this side of the Pacific Rim. None of their neighbors can afford to slam the door on them if they can help it.”
Tombstone nodded. “What about my American passport? Is that going to be a problem?”
“No. There’s still no official restriction on Americans entering or leaving Hong Kong. It’s just that it’s an at-your-own-risk sort of thing. When you think about it, it’s probably better that you’re going into the civilian airport, anyway. Less chance of anyone noticing who you are that way.”
Tombstone nodded again. This amateur 007 stuff drove him crazy. It fed into his mounting conviction that he was on a snipe hunt, while the real action was happening out at sea, with the carrier group.
But orders were orders. In his wallet he carried a piece of paper with Martin Lee’s telephone number and address written on it in both English and Chinese, courtesy of someone at the Pentagon. Not that Lee had agreed to speak with Tombstone, or anyone else. Evidently he had even stopped answering his telephone.
Joe checked his watch. “We’ll have someone drive you to the airport, Admiral. Your flight leaves at thirteen hundred. Commander Flynn, we’ve got a Tomcat on the deck waiting to get you out to Jefferson.” He rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll double-check its status.”
After he left, Tombstone turned to Tomboy. “Decent of him. Give me a kiss. It might be a while before we have another chance.”
“Why, Admiral… what if someone were to walk in?”
“I’d accuse you of attacking me.”
“And you’d be right.”
Still, they kept the kiss short.
Tuesday, 5 August
1800 local (-8 GMT)
Hilton Hotel
Washington, D.C.
It had been a hectic day in Washington, an endless string of meetings with various cabinet members and think tank groups, and Ambassador Wexler was about to slide into a hot bath when the phone rang.
She scowled at it, debating letting the hotel’s answering service pick it up. Any really critical calls would have come in on her cell phone.
But in the end, she went and grabbed up the receiver anyway. Sometimes she lamented her own compulsiveness.
The first thing she heard was the unmistakable background cacophony of a kitchen in full swing. What’s this, room service? “Hello?” she said loudly.
A clipped, formal voice said, “Madame Ambassador, this is Ambassador T’ing from the People’s Republic of China.”
“Right, and I’m Little Orphan Annie from the planet Zondar.” She was about to hang up when the voice said, “Please.”
Something about the tone of that word… well, it wasn’t a word you often heard expressed with sincerity in her line of work… something about it made her bring the receiver back to her ear. “What is this?”
“Please, Madame Ambassador. It is very difficult for me to make this call at all. I ask you not to make it any more difficult.”
By God, the voice did sound like T’ing’s. Still, Sarah Wexler was nobody’s patsy. “It’s rare for the United Nations Ambassador from one major world power to call the United Nations ambassador from another major world power from the middle of a kitchen,” she said.
“Not in my country.” That did it. The voice was so dry, the words so ambiguous, their source had to be T’ing. He went on, “I must meet with you, Madame Ambassador. Privately.”
“You mean — privately privately?”
“Just so. There are certain things I must discuss with you. Things for your ears only, you understand.”
“Not entirely. There are channels for this. And how did you find out where I was staying, anyway?”
He didn’t answer her question. “It is crucial for the futures of both our nations that we have this conversation, Ambassador. And that only you and I are involved at this point. Could you meet
with me? Shall we say, at the Lincoln Memorial?”
She blinked. He had to be kidding. And yet, dry wit aside, intrigue aside, “joking” was not a characteristic one ordinarily associated with T’ing.
She surprised herself by saying, “When?”
Thursday, 7 August
0800 local (-8 GMT)
Vicinity USS Jefferson
“Bit bumpy, ma’am,” the COD pilot said over ICS. “Sorry about that.”
“I’m used to it,” Tomboy said from the backseat. She tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. He was right about the turbulence, though. Serious-looking storm clouds crowded against one another all over the water surrounding Jefferson, turning the atmosphere into a roller coaster.
This particular Tomcat was on its way to the carrier to replace the one shot down during the previous day’s air battle. There was something grim in hitching a ride on this particular bird… still, she found few places more comfortable than the backseat of an F-14. The sounds, the smells, the vibrations… they were all a part of her.
As the jet banked onto final, she felt the usual mixture of exhilaration and fear leap up in her gut. It was a sensation familiar to all RIOs. After all, short of opting to punch out, backseaters had absolutely no control over what the Tomcat did with them in the air other than the ultimate veto option — the ejection seat handle. On the other hand, RIOs also didn’t have to worry about actually landing the big bird on the deck of a pitching aircraft carrier… so they could, at some fatalistic level, simply relax and enjoy the ride.
After the jolt and the stomach-compressing deceleration that told her the wire had been successfully snagged, she let out a long breath and grinned. “Nice trap,” she said over ICS.
“Thank you, ma’am,” the pilot replied.
Batman was waiting for her when she climbed out of the plane. As always, she had to suppress the urge to hug him. His smile, tired but genuine, told her he was thinking the same thing. “Good to see you, Tomboy,” he said.
“You too, Admiral.”
“How’s Stoney?”
“I’ll fill you in on him real soon, Batman,” she said as they ducked in out of the wind and noise of the flight deck. “But first, let me go talk to our witness.”
“You bet,” he said. “Just do me one favor: Don’t mention all these thunderheads, okay?”
0900 local (-8 GMT)
The Walled City
Kowloon
The boy scurried past the rows of illegal dentist offices and into the Walled City. Immediately, he left behind the light and clamor of Kowloon for an older, darker city.
The Walled City had been a curiosity, an embarrassment, and a dangerous pain for every ruler of the region ever since the British expanded their control from Hong Kong proper onto the mainland. At that time, due to a bureaucratic snafu, a section of Kowloon had remained, strictly speaking, an unleased section of the People’s Republic. The British dealt with this anomaly by pretending it wasn’t there. Squatters immediately moved into this lawless section of the city, erecting a shantytown devoid of electricity, fresh water or sanitation. Here was where criminals and drug runners fled and hid, knowing their foreign landlords would never dare pursue. The British responded by constructing a stone wall around the sector.
During World War Two the Japanese occupation government tore down the wall itself to supply raw materials for extending the runway of Kai Tak Airport, but the Walled City remained there in spirit. And it remained there still, demarcating the line between bright Kowloon and an intricate warren composed of narrow alleys and staircases descending to deathtraps. Even now, under PRC control, the Walled City remained a land apart, a shadow city where lived those who wished to avoid the attention of the authorities. Any authorities.
The boy ran down an alley barely a meter wide, his rubber sandals slapping through puddles of water that never went away. He glanced over his shoulder. No one behind him. Immediately he turned and darted down a steep set of steps. At the bottom he rapped on a door, then pushed through. “I have a message,” he said in Cantonese to the hard-faced man standing there. The man, who appeared to be Japanese or Korean or some other foreign race, merely nodded.
The boy flapped on, down dark hallways, up rickety staircases, darting from one building to another. Finally he confronted a door with a peephole in it. He knocked. After a moment, the door opened. A small man stood there. Small even by Hong Kong standards, but filled with the taut energy of a fighting cock. His nose had been smashed enough times that it lay almost flat across his cheeks. His name was Chou Hu, or so he said. Probably he had lied; that was the way in the Walled City.
The boy respected Chou. Everyone in the Walled City respected Chou, and this was an accomplishment. Here, respect could be won only one way.
The boy could not tell if Chou was alone in the dark room. Up and down the corridor, other doors stood partly open. Were more quiet, watchful men behind those doors as well? Were guns pointing at him right now?
He bowed respectfully, then pulled an envelope out of his pocket and held it out. “A new message for you, sir.”
“Open it,” Chou said. “Then hand me the paper.”
The boy swallowed. He knew why he was being asked to open the envelope: It might explode. He had heard of such things.
Hands sweating, he tore the end off the envelope. Nothing happened. Letting out a long breath, he pulled out a single slip of paper and handed it to Chou without even glancing at it. He didn’t want any of these watchful people to think he had read the note. Especially since he didn’t even know how to read.
Chou took the slip of paper and opened it. In the gloom, his eyes moved from side to side. He nodded. “Go back to Mr. Blossom,” he said. “Tell him the location is ready for another visitor. And tell him something else as well: Tell him his money is welcome, but we’d prefer blood. Can you remember that?”
The boy nodded. Being without the written word, he had developed an excellent memory.
Perhaps too good. That night, Mr. Chou would pursue him through the Walled City of his dreams.
0900 local (-8 GMT)
Kai Tak Airport
Hong Kong
Tombstone hated civilian airports. He hated the crowds, hated waiting in lines, hated the smiles of the ticketing clerks, which managed somehow to be obsequious and surly at the same time.
Still, being in an airport meant one terrific thing, at least on the debarking end: It meant you’d survived yet another flight during which someone else controlled your fate.
His knees were still a bit wobbly from the landing. The pilot had bashed the Boeing 737 down like he was trying for the three-wire. Obviously this was a guy who believed the old saw, “Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.” Or maybe he’d just been in a hurry to get out of the air, which had been far from smooth. The flight down from Singapore had meandered through cathedrals of billowing cloud.
Inside, Kai Tak Airport looked like all airports, from Germany to Iowa. There were even a lot of people from Germany and Iowa. You could tell the latter because they were leaving, and they looked nervous.
There were also a lot of armed guards around. They looked nervous, too, as well as grim.
Tombstone stood in line at Customs, trying not to let his impatience show. When he was asked his purpose in Hong Kong, he swallowed the urge to say, “I’m here to make sure the United States can beat the PLA’s ass out of the sky for generations to come.” Instead, he just said, “Business,” and was promptly allowed through. Maybe the suit had been the right idea after all.
Shouldering his overnight bag, he followed the flood of humanity toward what the signs assured him was the exit. From there, he’d grab a taxi and head straight to Martin Lee’s address. He’d already decided not to phone first, lest he warn his wary contact off.
He still had no idea exactly what he was going to say when and if he did meet Mr. Lee. What could he say to convince the poor young man that he, Tombstone Magruder, was someone to
confide in? This whole enterprise really was ridiculous.
Then he remembered how he’d spent the last half hour of the flight: staring fixedly out the window. Not at the clouds, but at every passing airplane. Wondering if the next one would be manta-shaped and carrying air-to-air missiles. Wondering if he, Tombstone Magruder, was going to die in an aircraft with someone else at the controls.
No. He was here for a reason, and he’d do the best he could to complete his mission.
As he was making his way across the main lobby toward the doors, eyeing the taxis lined up outside, he heard a soft voice say, “Admiral Magruder?”
He halted and turned. A young Chinese man stood nearby, his hands folded in front of him. He wore an expensive-looking charcoal suit. Tombstone recognized him instantly, from the photographs he’d been shown. “Mr. Lee?”
The young man nodded, looked around nervously.
“How did you know I was coming in?” Tombstone asked.
“I… I am sorry I didn’t answer your calls before, sir. I was frightened. For my wife, you understand. But now she is gone from Hong Kong. She is safe. So I… I wanted to talk to you. I called America. I spoke with your uncle; he told me you were coming.”
“Well, it’s good to meet you.” Tombstone held out his hand. Lee shook it quickly, still looking around.
“It is not safe,” he said. “Please come with me, quickly.”
Tombstone followed the smaller man outside, where Lee gestured away a swarm of taxi drivers, then walked into a parking garage and up to the last thing Tombstone had expected to see: a large black American car, a Lincoln. Not quite a limousine, but close. It had a limo’s black window glass and boomerang-shaped antenna on the back. “This is from the MEI fleet,” Lee said, almost apologetically. “Always available for executive use.” He pointed a remote control at the car and an alarm bleeped off. Tombstone heard locks pop open. Lee walked to the trunk and opened it. It was enormous inside; Tombstone’s overnight bag looked like a Chicklet in there. Lee moved toward the passenger side, which Tombstone found to be an enormous relief. He couldn’t imagine the nervous little man driving this boat.
Typhoon Season c-14 Page 18