The Second Chinese Revolution (The Russian Agents Book 5)

by Ted Halstead

  "You and the other billionaires will be in charge. Just as in America," Wang said softly.

  "Well, it's not that simple. Even in America, sometimes things happen that the billionaires don't like. Their control is not absolute. For example, some of the billionaires who've run for President have lost. Here in China, though, we can do better," Pan said confidently.

  "How?" Wang asked.

  "You still insist I reveal my most precious secrets?" Pan asked with an easy smile and paused.

  "Why not? You need to understand how deeply you have my trust. Here's how it will work. After the Second Revolution, we will be the ones who draw the first electoral map. And make whatever subsequent 'adjustments' we decide are necessary. We will also have the world's best coder to help ensure the outcome we want," Pan said.

  Wang looked up with alarm. "So you don't just want Chen to help make the Second Revolution a success. You also need her for its aftermath. But Chen will never agree to what you plan."

  "Yes, she will. Because you will persuade her," Pan said with a smile.

  "You overestimate my powers. No matter how much Chen believes she loves me, she will never betray her ideals," Wang said decisively.

  "Of course not," Pan replied. "You will have to convince her that the alternative is even worse. A return to Communist rule, for example."

  Then Pan paused. "Except for the attack on the Shanghai Stock Exchange, what we have done so far with Chen's help has only embarrassed the Party. Or so it seems. In fact, by hacking the shaming signs and interrupting the President's address, we raised Forward's visibility throughout China. Many others with the access codes and other information we need to attack much more important targets have contacted us. But Chen's talents are still critical to making the best possible use of what we have been given by the many who desire a free China."

  Wang frowned. "Do you really think getting Chen to help will be so easy?"

  Pan shook his head. "Not at all. Remember, the best lie always has an element of truth. The Communist Party will remain a threat, even after we drive it from power. After nearly a century in charge, how could it not be?"

  Then Pan paused and smiled. "And we both know how persuasive you can be."

  Wang smiled back. "Let me remind you."

  As she knew Pan expected.

  But as she removed her clothes, Wang asked herself where her loyalties truly stood.

  And how long it would be before she had to choose.

  Chapter Sixty-Seven

  Beijing, China

  Mark Bishop smiled to himself as he walked to his car, parked just outside his daughter Katy's high school. Beijing was one of the rare posts offering a student a choice of several English-speaking high schools issuing a diploma that any American university would accept.

  Though when he sought his assignment at the Embassy in Beijing, where he was now the highest-ranking CIA representative in country, Bishop already knew which high school Katy would choose.

  The one with the best girls' basketball team.

  Bishop had just spent the early evening cheering himself hoarse for Katy and her team, which had won again. Katy had been the team's lead scorer. She was good enough that Bishop thought she had a real shot at a university basketball scholarship.

  Too bad Katy was only a junior. Bishop had been able to get the extra months added to his assignment to let her finish the school year, but Katy would have to do her final year of high school in Virginia. Bishop's home, currently occupied by renters, was in Fairfax County not far from CIA headquarters at Langley.

  Katy had insisted on having a friend on the team take her home after the game. Since her friend lived in the same apartment building as Bishop and her father would be driving, he had no good reason to say no.

  It was just one of many signs that Katy wasn't his little girl anymore.

  As he walked down the sidewalk towards his car, Bishop's thoughts were so preoccupied with Katy that he almost missed seeing him.

  But not quite. Bishop had been well trained and had years of field experience before his Beijing assignment. Yes, as first deputy station chief and then as chief, the Chinese had known exactly who he was. With few exceptions, that meant an end to field work.

  Still, a part of him was always alert to his surroundings.

  Even with all his experience, Bishop almost missed seeing Minister Song, head of the Ministry of State Security (MSS). It was dark, and Song had a hat pulled down low that obscured his face.

  Bishop did spot him, though. Mostly because Song was walking right towards him.

  Bishop automatically looked for Song's security detail. He thought to himself it might help that he'd seen at least some of those guards before, at the meal they had shared not so long ago.

  He couldn't see anyone else on the street other than a parent headed, just like Bishop, for his car.

  Bishop knew that didn't mean anything. This was the MSS' home turf. Not just China, but the Chinese capital. Song could have two dozen security agents within easy reach, and if he wanted to hide them, Bishop wouldn't see a thing.

  But Bishop didn't think so. Song was now close enough that Bishop could see his expression.

  Not that Bishop was sure what Song's expression meant. Or that he could be certain Song wasn't putting on an act.

  Song looked like a man being hunted. Who knew he didn't have much time left.

  Bishop had nearly reached his car and slowed. Song was close enough now for him to speak if that's what he wanted.

  Was he going to ask Bishop to go with him somewhere?

  Did Song want to defect?

  No. Song walked right past him and didn't say a word.

  Bishop opened the door to his car and started the engine.

  Then Bishop looked in the sedan's rearview window. Song was still walking in the same direction and wasn't looking back.

  Bishop drove his car away from the curb at a normal, slow speed. This was a residential area, and Chinese police were diligent at enforcing speed limits.

  Never mind that no foreign diplomat posted to America ever paid a traffic ticket. The State Department insisted that any American official abroad pay for every infraction.

  That's not why Bishop was such a careful driver, though. It was basic tradecraft. Do nothing that might attract attention.

  The car approaching Bishop from the front was a Wuling Hongguang. Produced by a joint venture between General Motors and a local company, it had one primary virtue for State Security.

  It was the most popular car in China, with over a half-million annual registrations. Nobody would give one a second look.

  Except that this one was going nearly double the speed limit, with no lights or siren.

  So probably not police.

  MSS.

  Bishop made a point of looking straight ahead as the car sped past him.

  It didn't matter. From the corner of his eye, he could see that the driver had been staring straight at him.

  Bishop looked in his rearview mirror and cursed as he saw the speeding car had braked and wheeled around in a maneuver too smooth to have been executed by an untrained civilian.

  Had they recognized Bishop? Or were they after Song and had been ordered to pull over anyone in the vicinity?

  It didn't matter. Bishop was going to the Embassy and wasn't stopping for anyone.

  He had just figured out why Song had walked past him without speaking.

  Keeping his right hand on the steering wheel, Bishop had checked his left jacket pocket, the one that had been closest to Song.

  It now contained a USB drive.

  A brush pass.

  Bishop had to give Song credit. He hadn't seen or felt a thing.

  Ordinarily, Bishop's diplomatic status would have kept him safe. The Chinese knew that targeting an American diplomat would have serious repercussions.

  But whatever China's top security official had passed him on the USB drive would be worth any price to recover.

  And I'm in
a car, Bishop thought.

  Over a quarter-million people died in traffic accidents annually in China.

  An American diplomat happened to be included in that statistic? Regrettable.

  Very regrettable.

  Bishop had only one advantage. Not by coincidence, Katy's school was close to the Embassy. He didn't have far to go.

  Then Bishop realized he might have one other advantage and punched the button on the dashboard that connected his phone to the Embassy. Next, he said, "Post One."

  This connected Bishop to the Marine staffing the security booth in the Embassy closest to the main entrance, called "Post One."

  "This is Bishop. Do you know who I am?" Bishop asked.

  Beijing was one of the largest Foreign Service posts, and Marines cycled through frequently. If Bishop's luck was bad, he could have drawn a newly posted Marine who had not yet been read in on key Embassy personnel.

  But his luck tonight was good. "Yes, sir," came the immediate response.

  The Marine then added, "Sir, I have the Gunny here with me. Would you like to speak to him?"

  Jackpot, Bishop thought. The Marine commanding an Embassy's Marine Security Detachment (MSD) was often, but not always, a Gunnery Sergeant. A very old tradition had that MSD commander informally called "Gunny" by everyone at post regardless of his actual rank.

  "Yes, please," Bishop said as he looked in his rearview mirror.

  Bishop was driving as fast as he safely could on the narrow residential street. But the car behind him was gaining.

  "Gunnery Sergeant Watkins here," came the familiar gravelly voice over the car's speakers.

  Familiar not just because it was always a good idea to get to know the men who protected you. Bishop regarded staying in shape as vital for any agent posted overseas. The Marines always had the best workout equipment and were happy to share.

  "Gunny, it's Bishop. I'm being pursued by Chinese security. I'll be arriving in a few minutes at the cargo entrance with them right behind me. I'm in my own vehicle with dip plates. I need the gate open with security in place."

  "Got it," Watkins replied. "We'll be ready."

  "Dip plates" had been key to Watkins' willingness to agree to Bishop's request. Watkins' console at Post One told him that the phone being used to call was Bishop's. He knew Bishop's voice. On top of that, diplomatic license plates on the car speeding towards the cargo gate would tell Watkins it was Bishop's vehicle.

  First, though, Bishop had to get to the Embassy.

  A vehicle emerged from each side of the intersection two blocks ahead and swung towards him.

  Then stopped with headlights blazing on high, each one angled toward the middle of the street.

  An improvised roadblock.

  They had made just one mistake. By being a few seconds too early.

  Bishop reacted instantly, turning left on the only intersection that lay between him and the new roadblock.

  On this street, though, he was no longer headed towards the Embassy.

  Instinct, though, told him to wait. Bishop had to stay focused on the road ahead. But quick glances confirmed his guess that a right turn at the next two intersections would have run him into vehicles obstructing his way to the Embassy.

  At the third intersection, though, Bishop decided to take a chance and turned right.

  Clear.

  They hadn't yet had time to block every intersection between Bishop and the Embassy.

  With luck, they'd think he was headed to the main entrance, not the cargo gate. Especially since at night, the cargo gate would usually be locked tight and unmanned.

  Bishop grimaced. He wasn't giving Watkins much time to change that. Even at a dead run from the other side of the massive Embassy, Bishop wasn't sure Watkins and his men could get to the cargo gate before he did.

  Well, he was about to find out.

  Bishop made one more sharp right turn. If his memory served, the cargo gate should be right ahead.

  Yes! Even better, it was starting to swing open, and security lights snapped on at both sides of the gate.

  Bishop could see Watkins and two other Marines at the gate and accelerated towards them.

  No! A sedan lurched into the intersection ahead and slammed on its brakes.

  There was no room to avoid it.

  In America, everyone had heard about defensive driving. For agents like Bishop, another course was part of initial field training, with mandatory refreshers over the rest of a career.

  Its unofficial name was Offensive Driving.

  Bishop had only a couple of seconds to calculate trajectories and weights. And, crucially important, to remember to press the button on his dashboard that turned off the airbags.

  Because without that custom switch, those airbags would have been sure to deploy.

  Bishop hit the blocking car near the facing rear wheel. He knew the Chinese car's model and that it was front-wheel drive. Slamming into the car near its trunk gave him the best chance to swing it out of his way.

  It worked! The way to the cargo gate was clear!

  Suddenly, Bishop's rear windshield shattered, and he ducked.

  He hadn't heard any shots. They'd been fired from silenced weapons. MSS, Bishop thought again, not ordinary police.

  Glass fragments and cold night air washed over Bishop as his car passed through the cargo gate and approached the loading dock.

  Bishop could hear the gate humming closed behind him as he brought the car to a stop and opened the door at his side.

  Bishop cautiously raised his head to check what was happening before he exited, just as he heard a familiar voice.

  Watkins.

  "You OK, sir?" Watkins asked.

  A reasonable question, Bishop thought, as he looked himself over. He knew from experience that sometimes gunshot victims weren't immediately aware they'd been hit due to shock.

  But not this time.

  "I'm fine. Are they still out there?" Bishop asked.

  Watkins shook his head. "No, sir. As soon as your car made it through the gate, that vehicle you hit took off. Gate's closed, and we shut off the lights. No point giving a sniper an easy shot."

  Bishop nodded. "Thanks, Gunny. You and your men really saved me tonight."

  Watkins shrugged. "What we're here for, sir."

  As Bishop exited the car, Watkins gestured towards the smashed front end and shot-out rear windshield and shook his head. "Hope it was worth the risk, sir."

  Bishop fingered the USB drive in his left jacket pocket.

  Yes. Still there.

  "Me too," Bishop said.

  Chapter Sixty-Eight

  The White House

  Washington DC

  President Hernandez scowled as General Robinson walked into the Oval Office.

  "General, I've just finished a telephone call with President Gu. He invited me to climb a tree when I complained about their destruction of SpaceLink's satellites near China. Says they were a threat to Chinese national security. When I demanded compensation, he asked about compensation for their base at Ziyou Island and their missing submarine," Hernandez said.

  "And how did you reply, sir?" Robinson asked with a worried frown.

  Hernandez shrugged. "How do you think? What island? What submarine? But even if China has no proof to take to a world audience, they know it was us. I think Eli Wade is going to have to eat the cost of those satellites."

  Robinson nodded. "And what about China's neighbors? They can't be happy about losing their satellite Internet service."

  "Gu said that they're willing to launch replacement satellites to provide free Internet service and that several countries have already accepted the offer," Hernandez said.

  Robinson grunted. "Satellites that will be controlled by the Chinese, of course."

  "I don't think most of those countries will care whether anything critical of the Chinese is censored. Not if they can get satellite Internet access for free," Hernandez said.

  "You're probably right, s
ir. Did you see my report on the thirteen SpaceLink satellites that survived the previous Chinese attack?” Robinson asked.

  “I did,” Hernandez replied. “So, because of the contract the Air Force just signed with Wade to have SpaceLink satellites serve as backup military communications, those thirteen satellites were hardened against an electromagnetic pulse. And SpaceLink has confirmed that those satellites are still functioning, though they still haven’t been turned on for users.”

  “Yes, sir. I propose that we let Forward know about those satellites. At a minimum, so they won’t throw away their Gateways quite yet,” Robinson said.

  Hernandez grunted. “And at maximum, to coordinate their activities with us? That could be a dangerous road.”

  “Agreed. But we could keep cooperation limited. For example, by turning on just one SpaceLink satellite for the short time needed for a specific Forward attack,” Robinson said.

  “Or turn them all on if, say, China invaded Taiwan,” Hernandez said, and frowned.

  “It would give us the ability to distract the Chinese government at what could be a critical time, sir,” Robinson said.

  Hernandez paused, and for a moment looked uncertain. Finally, he shrugged.

  “Fine. Coordinate with the CIA to pass the word to Forward that SpaceLink satellites capable of communicating with Gateways have survived. But their use will be on our schedule, not theirs. And if they want those satellites to continue to be available, they had better ensure word of their survival doesn’t reach the Chinese government,” Hernandez said.

  “Yes, sir,” Robinson said, as he wrote notes on his pad. “What did you think of the intelligence report on China's intentions towards Taiwan?" Robinson asked.

  "I think intentions are one thing, and capabilities another. I want an updated report on whether China can invade Taiwan successfully and what the Air Force could do to stop them. Coordinate with the State Department to find out which other countries would be willing and able to act against a Chinese invasion of Taiwan. We'll lead, but I'm not going to try to stop China alone," Hernandez said.