by Dave Barry
He asked us what we were doing in China. Horkman and I looked at each other for a second, and then, at the same time, Horkman said “tourism” and I said “business.”
“So, which one is it?” said Lieutenant Sulu. “Business, or tourism?”
“It’s basically a tourism business,” I said.
“What kind of tourism business?” said Lieutenant Sulu.
“You know,” Horkman said, waving his arm to indicate China in general. “Arranging tourist visits to the many sights of your great country. The Great Wall, the Forbidden City . . . the, uh, Great . . . Wall . . .”
I could see he was stuck, so I added, “All the main popular Chinese tourist shit.”
Horkman gave me a look that said Shut up, and I gave him a look that said Fuck you, asshole, at least I didn’t say the Great Wall twice.
Lieutenant Sulu was frowning at us. He pointed to Horkman’s briefcase and said, “What do you have in that briefcase?”
“Personal effects,” said Horkman.
“What kind of personal effects?”
“Just . . . the usual,” said Horkman.
“The usual?” I said.
“Shut up,” said Horkman.
“Mr. Fazir,” said Lieutenant Sulu, speaking to Horkman. “Please open the briefcase.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” said Horkman.
“May I ask why not?”
“I don’t know the combination.”
“You don’t know the combination to the briefcase of personal effects you have handcuffed to your wrist?”
“Correct.”
“I see. Do you have the key to the handcuff?”
“No.”
Lieutenant Sulu sighed. “All right,” he said. “I will have the briefcase removed, then.” He stood up and went to the door. He punched the keypad, opened the door and stepped out; we heard him talking to somebody in the hallway. Horkman quickly put the briefcase in his lap, worked the combination lock and opened it.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“I’m going to give you the card,” he said.
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Hide it,” he said.
He reached into the briefcase and, using his fingertips, carefully took the Mickey Mantle card out. He handed it to me, then quickly shut the briefcase. Lieutenant Sulu was coming back in. I stuck the card under my Air China blanket.
“Mr. Fazir,” said Sulu. “You will come with me. Mr. al-Fakoob, you will stay here.”
“Why don’t you go fakoob yourself,” I said, although not too loud.
As Horkman stood up, he leaned over and whispered, “Don’t let them get the card.” Then he followed Sulu out of the room.
For once I agreed with Horkman; no way was I going to let the Chinese get hold of the card, which I figured was worth a lot of money, at least half of which would be mine, and maybe all of which would be mine, depending on what happened to Horkman, which frankly was not my concern. My concern was where to hide the card. All I was wearing was underpants, an Air China blanket and Arab headgear. I had no pockets. I tried tucking the card into my headgear, but it wouldn’t stay. I could hear noise in the hall, people coming my way. They were getting close. I had to make a decision. So I did.
I stuck the card up my ass.
I had to roll it up first, which probably is not ideal treatment for a rare mint-condition baseball card, but put yourself in my position and ask yourself: What would you do? I’ll tell you what: You would stick the card up your ass.
I was just finished when the door opened. In came Lieutenant Sulu and Horkman. I could see soldiers behind them. Horkman’s handcuff was gone, and so was the briefcase. Lieutenant Sulu did not look happy.
“You will come with us,” he said to me.
I stood up and started walking toward them. I got maybe two steps.
Then the whole building went batshit.
I mean batshit. Alarms started going off everywhere. The lights went off, then back on again. Chinese voices started shouting from speakers in the wall and walkie-talkies carried by soldiers.
Lieutenant Sulu, looking worried, told me and Horkman to stay in the room. He left, slamming the door shut behind him.
“What the fuck is happening?” I said.
“I don’t know,” said Horkman.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”
“How?” said Horkman. “We’re locked in.”
Exactly when he said that, the lights went off, then on again. Then the keypad by the door beeped.
Then the door swung open.
We went to the doorway and looked out. There were people in the hall walking fast in both directions, but at the moment no soldiers, and no Sulu. Horkman and I looked at each other.
“Okay,” I said, “now let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We went out into the hall and started walking. We passed a lot of people, a lot of them running now, everybody looking really worried. Some of them stared at us, but nobody tried to stop us. The loudspeakers were still shouting in Chinese, alarms were going off everywhere. The lights kept going off and on.
We came to a big corridor, where there was a steady flow of people heading in one direction, which we figured was out. So we got into the flow, and pretty soon we came to a building exit, with everybody pouring out past a bunch of soldiers, who were shouting, but nobody was paying any attention.
Now we were outside in a huge mob, everybody yelling and shoving everybody else. There were helicopters overhead, and more sirens, and more loudspeakers blaring. Horkman and I had no idea which way to go, and it wouldn’t have mattered if we did, because all we could do was get pushed along by the crowd. We got swept into a wide street next to a huge open area containing approximately the entire fucking population of China.
That’s when it got bad.
First, I heard screaming in front of us. A lot of screaming, really loud.
Then, all of a sudden, all the people in front of us, who had been surging forward, suddenly turned around and started surging back in our direction.
Then I got my fucking foot stuck. I don’t know how I did it, but all of a sudden my left foot was jammed way down into a wide crack in the pavement, and I could not get the fucking thing back out, at least not with all these asshole Chinese people pushing against me and screaming.
“HORKMAN!” I yelled. “HELP ME OUT HERE! I’M STUCK!”
“I CAN’T GET TO YOU!” he yelled back from the crowd, which was dragging him away. Right then I decided I was definitely keeping all the Mickey Mantle card money.
So the situation was, I was in this insane mob, leaning over, yanking on my foot, which was not budging, with all these screaming people running past me, bumping into me. Then I heard a new sound, a motor. A big motor, really close. And a noise like clank clank clank.
So I stood up, and there it was, right in front of me, just a few yards away.
A fucking tank.
The size of a three-car garage.
Coming straight at me.
Clank clank clank . . .
The crowd was now completely cleared out of the way. It was just me and the tank, which was close enough that I could reach out and touch it.
“HEY!” I said, banging on the hood, or whatever you call the front part of a tank. “STOP!”
The tank kept coming.
Clank clank clank . . .
Now I’m pounding like a maniac and shouting, “STOP! PLEASE! STOPSTOPSTOPSTOPSTOPPPPP!!”
The tank bumped against my chest. I was absolutely sure I was about to become a human tortilla. All I could think, in what I truly believed were the last seconds of my life, was, Why couldn’t it be Horkman who got his foot caught?
A
nd then, all of a sudden, the tank stopped.
For a few seconds, nobody moved. It was just me standing there with the tank touching my chest, and all these Chinese standing around in a big circle, watching. Nobody said a word. It was totally silent, except for a sound like prrbbbt, which was the Mickey Mantle rookie card squirting out of my ass. Go ahead, judge me. Let’s see how your bowels handle a fucking tank.
The silence went on for maybe ten seconds, until it became clear the tank wasn’t starting up again. And then the crowd went nuts. They all came charging forward, smiling and shouting, swarming around me and the tank. A bunch of hands grabbed me. I yelled, “HEY! MY FOOT IS STUCK!” But they lifted me straight up, and the way they did it yanked my foot loose.
Next thing I knew they were carrying me over their heads. I was yelling, “PUT ME DOWN! PUT ME DOWN, GODDAMMIT!” But they paid no attention. They were like a bunch of ants carrying a dropped particle of corn dog. I don’t mean that in a racial way, the ants thing. I mean it in the sense of, even if a corn dog particle doesn’t want to be carried, the ants don’t give a shit.
I heard a voice yelling, “PECKERMAN! PECKERMAN!” I looked down and saw Horkman reaching for me. The crowd realized we were together, but instead of putting me down, they lifted him up, too. Now we were both bouncing around up there like the bride and groom at some kind of nightmare Jewish wedding where the guests were all Chinese and batshit crazy. From that height I could see that the tank that almost ran me over was the beginning of a long line of tanks, which were all stopped and being swarmed over by thousands of people. There were people in every direction, no end to them, all waving and yelling at me and Horkman.
The crowd started passing us along overhead, from one set of hands to the next. They also started chanting something—something about a phantom, it sounded like, but I couldn’t make it out. I also couldn’t figure out how to make them put me the fuck down.
I looked back at Horkman, bouncing along on top of the crowd behind me. Believe it or not, he was smiling.
“Isn’t this exhilarating?” he shouted.
Seriously, could there possibly be a bigger asshole?
CHAPTER 50
The NBC Nightly News
BRIAN WILLIAMS: Good evening. After their brilliant triumphs in Cuba, Somalia, and the Middle East, it seemed impossible that international activists Philip Horkman and Jeffrey Peckerman would be able to top themselves. Now, incredibly, they have. This time the Fantasmas de la Noche—the Ghosts of the Night—struck in China, and the result is nothing short of world-changing. What you’re looking at now are live images from Tiananmen Square in the heart of Beijing, where a crowd estimated in the millions—that’s right, millions—has been celebrating all night, with no sign of stopping. There are joyful throngs like this gathered in cities all over China, which is experiencing a peaceful pro-democracy upheaval at a speed and on a scale unprecedented in modern history. And it all began with a single act—an act of great courage; an act that resonated deeply with the Chinese people; an act that inspired what is being called the Blanket Revolution. For more on this astonishing story we go to NBC China correspondent Judith Smith, in Tiananmen Square. Judith?
SMITH: Brian, yesterday began as an ordinary day in Beijing, but it took an extraordinary turn. At about two p.m. local time, China was attacked by a fast-spreading computer virus that, among other things, severely disrupted the power grid and wiped out the government’s ability to monitor and control Internet and telephone communications. In a matter of minutes, China’s vast military and police surveillance apparatus was rendered completely blind, and virtually powerless. This triggered an official panic, as the authorities, fearing an attack, ordered troops, tanks, and armored vehicles into the streets of Beijing, which at the same time were rapidly filling with masses of nervous civilians scared out of buildings by the alarms and commotion. And that, Brian, is when it happened: A confrontation between a man and a tank, evoking the iconic encounter that took place here during the 1989 protests. This video, shot on an onlooker’s cell phone, shows a man standing alone, directly in front of a line of Chinese army tanks, refusing to move and pounding defiantly on the lead tank. It was a game of chicken with deadly stakes, and in the end, this man, armed only with his courage, triumphed. The tank stopped, the balance was tipped, and a revolution was won. The man who took on that tank—the brave man who would not be moved—has since been identified as none other than Jeffrey Peckerman.
WILLIAMS: Judith, do you have any information on the odd costume he’s wearing?
SMITH: Brian, the headpiece he’s wearing seems to be a traditional kaffiyeh, worn by Arab men. His body is covered by a blanket with the logo of Air China, the official Chinese airline. Experts I’ve talked to believe this costume is meant as a political statement, symbolizing unity between the people of China and the people of the Middle East in their struggles for democracy.
WILLIAMS: Fascinating. And what about the other “Ghost of the Night,” Philip Horkman?
SMITH: He must have been very close by, Brian. This video, taken moments after Peckerman stopped the line of tanks, shows both men being passed hand to hand over the cheering crowd, which at that point had recognized the Fantasmas de la Noche and was chanting their nickname. Inspired by Peckerman’s display of bravery, the crowd then stormed into and took over government facilities throughout Beijing; they were joined by soldiers and police officers, who put down their weapons and joined the fast-spreading movement. By nightfall, the entire country had been swept up in what the Chinese are now calling Tan Geming, or the “Blanket Revolution.” As you can see in the crowd behind me, tonight thousands of people are wearing blankets and homemade kaffiyehs as a tribute to Peckerman and Horkman.
WILLIAMS: Judith, what about the computer virus? Was that also the work of Horkman and Peckerman?
SMITH: Nobody knows for certain, Brian, but it certainly seems likely, given the timing, and the level of technical proficiency displayed by these men in their previous operations.
WILLIAMS: For more on that aspect of the story, we go now to NBC News science and technology correspondent Robert Pearson in Washington. Robert, what can you tell us about the virus that brought China to its knees?
PEARSON: Brian, nobody here will speak on the record, but sources in the intelligence community tell me that this appears to be the work of a new supervirus that has been rumored to exist, but never seen in action before, called Fruxnet.
WILLIAMS: Fruxnet?
PEARSON: Fruxnet, Brian. It’s believed to be an extremely sophisticated, highly adaptable virus that inserts itself into target networks wirelessly. It’s carried on a tiny microchip incorporating a miniaturized radio receiver/transmitter and power supply so thin that the entire device can be concealed inside something as small as a business card. The device could be activated in a number of ways; for example, by simply bending the card, or warming it to body temperature. When activated, the virus immediately senses and penetrates any nearby networks. Once it gets inside, it quickly replicates itself and mutates as necessary until it has totally taken over. The effects, as we saw in China, are swift, and utterly devastating.
WILLIAMS: Do we have any idea who developed this virus, and how Horkman and Peckerman would have obtained it?
PEARSON: That’s a murky area, Brian. All we really know is that whoever developed it must have extremely advanced programming capabilities. The U.S. is believed to be doing top-secret work in this area, as are Israel, North Korea, Russia, Japan, and no doubt other nations as well. It’s also possible that another kind of sophisticated, extremely powerful and obsessively secretive international entity is behind this whole thing.
WILLIAMS: You don’t mean . . .
PEARSON: That’s right, Brian: Google.
WILLIAMS: My God.
PEARSON: I’m told Apple may be working on something similar, but with a cleaner design
.
WILLIAMS: Thank you, Robert. As news of the developments in China spread, spontaneous demonstrations of support broke out in cities around the world. You’re looking now at live video from Times Square, where a huge crowd has gathered, many people wearing blankets and traditional Arab headpieces. Many are also carrying photographs of Horkman and Peckerman, who are now unarguably the two most famous men on Earth, with worldwide legions of worshipful followers. Their faces are everywhere; their names are on everyone’s lips—and yet no one knows where they are. For once again, as they have after each previous exploit, the Fantasmas de la Noche have vanished. They possess a seemingly magical ability to turn up where they are needed. The question is, where will they be needed next?
CHAPTER 51
Philip
We were inside a crate.
I think that bears repeating. After the events that took place in Tiananmen Square, Peckerman and I spent the next two days inside a large wooden crate.
Allow me to explain.
Once those tanks sputtered and died, the mounting excitement of that crowd swelled to the point where the air was charged with the energy of celebration. And though we were in the midst of it all, we couldn’t figure out what they were celebrating.
“It’s probably New Year’s Eve!” shouted Peckerman above the mass hysteria.
“Can’t be,” I yelled back. “It’s summer.”
“I meant the Chinese New Year!”
“Nope, that’s in late January!”
“How about Presidents’ Day?”
“China doesn’t have presidents.”
“How about go fuck yourself?”
It was during this Talmudic exchange that I noticed the people who were now passing Peckerman from one set of hands to another were wearing red caps. And that they were moving him faster than I was being moved—most likely because none of them, despite their unbridled glee, wanted to be in contact with a bloated body covered only by a pair of fetid BVDs, a turban, and an Air China blanket a millisecond longer than was absolutely necessary.