The Brad West Files

by Fritz Galt

  At last he faced the crowd. What a circus. He could assume that Professor Richter had already taken center stage. Sure enough, his mentor was already standing at a podium before a packed house.

  Earl wended his way past the temporary bleachers set up especially for the occasion.

  “Ah, there you are,” Richter said in a rich, pleased way. The world seemed at his feet.

  Earl looked around in all directions. Okay. He was impressed.

  A row of patriotic bouquets with red and yellow flowers lined the dam’s railing. Behind that lay the immense Three Gorges valley. The Yangtze River seethed fifty meters below him at the foot of the dam.

  A bank of microphones, yet to be used, stood on the podium before them.

  Alongside the microphones, a yellow ribbon stretched several meters to a small model of a floodgate similar to the one he had spotted at the diversion channel next to the dam.

  Next to the model, a single, unlit light bulb hung suspended from an elegant lamp stand. It was a humble representation of the electricity that would be generated by the turbines below them.

  Further along the railing, a full symphonic orchestra screeched out a traditional Chinese folk song, “Little Sister of the Grasslands,” associated with the Long March.

  Several banks of television cameras zoomed in on whoever would stand behind the microphones. Beyond the cameras, ten rows of grandstands rimmed the top of the dam.

  One celebrity after another was packed into the stands. The warm afternoon sun glowed in their enthusiastic faces.

  Earl watched Liang and May position themselves at the microphones, a mere three meters away from the professor and him. He’d have to play it cool and find a less conspicuous moment to remove May from the scene. Lest she recognize him and give him away, he turned to examine the faces in the crowd arrayed before them.

  First there sat the bureaucrats who had authorized and financed the dam. Their business suits were festooned with red and yellow Three Gorges sashes. Beside them were the American bankers who issued the loans to build the dam, members of the World Heritage Foundation who certified that historically valuable artifacts had been safely removed from the area, and the presidents and CEOs of various European firms involved in constructing the dam.

  Behind them, the faces became more familiar. The glitterati of the political world wore more circumspect Three Gorges pins. They were there to see and be seen. He spotted Henry Kissinger with some hot young babe on his arm, the ex-prime minister of the United Kingdom, as well as a couple of ex-presidents from the U.S. and their wives, who were only half-heartedly trying to look interested. But those were just the political heavyweights.

  The cheering faces went on. Wearing Styrofoam Three Gorges hats was the former Governor of California in his trademark “Terminator” shades, Michael Jackson fresh from his latest transgender procedure, and the irrepressible Madonna up there in the stands trying to control her children.

  All were giving China their unbridled support to go ahead.

  And so, May close by his side, Liang reached out with a pair of oversized scissors and cut the yellow ribbon.

  Earl tried to pull his gaze away from the ’80s icon just when the floodgate in the model dam closed.

  He felt a trembling beneath him. It grew in strength. Then it reached his ears as a low, powerful roar.

  The crowd screamed in excitement and waved a sea of red and yellow Three Gorges flags. Confetti fell from light poles. The orchestra launched into the Chinese national anthem.

  It felt like he was riding the space shuttle during takeoff with the enormous thrust of the boosters beneath him. He hoped there was no other similarity with the ill-fated spaceship.

  All turbines were spinning. The light bulb flickered several times.

  The crowd screamed to encourage it.

  Then the light came on, steady and glowing brightly.

  The river started rising. Before their very eyes, the world’s largest reservoir was being born.

  Chapter 28

  Brad dropped the geologically diverse rock specimens into the river with a splash. He was neglecting the Central Committee.

  He hurried back toward the bend where the singing boatman had dropped him off. Along the way, he felt in his pocket for some more cash to keep his transportation nice and close.

  But he was wasting his time. He stopped dead in his tracks. The sampan had already left. The boatman had more sense than he had given him credit. Brad had no choice but to head for the committee on foot. He turned around and started in their direction.

  He had gotten about a hundred feet along the tributary when he spotted something unusual. Someone had excavated a flat area just above the waterline. Mounds of dirt and stone formed a circular wall a quarter meter high and four meters across.

  He scrambled closer and made out the telltale signs of a dig site. A thin string demarcated the area. Rock surfaces were neatly brushed and exposed. And numbered markers were pinned into the soil. The work looked insubstantial compared to the wall of water that was about to inundate the valley at any moment.

  He discovered several dark spots of dried liquid leading away from the site. From a distance, it looked like blood, perhaps from May’s father. That was strange. Drowning victims rarely bled, unless they were attacked by sharks. The only sharks in China would have to be the land-based variety.

  There was no sign of the scientist’s body.

  He bent over the restraining string to take a close look at the site. He didn’t dare set foot inside and disturb another scientist’s careful work. Unfortunately, he saw no evidence of fossils or bones, human or otherwise.

  Had the anthropologist abandoned the site in order to escape? Or had he just come up empty-handed?

  Prime Minister Yang Shuping was having one of the most relaxing afternoons of his life.

  Liang’s idea for the sampan excursion prior to the opening ceremony had proven therapeutic. The concept of a clandestine side trip made the men feel like truant schoolboys and released them from the daily burdens of staying in close contact with such institutions as the Central Military Commission, the Ministry of Public Security, the Ministry of State Security, and the Central Bank of China.

  The group of old men rarely had such a chance to enjoy each other’s company while ruminating over the beauty of their land.

  However, just in case his staff needed him, Yang considered placing a call back to Beijing. It was almost as if he were addicted to his cell phone. He was a junkie for news from the outside world. At the last moment, he decided not to call his office, but leave word of their whereabouts with China’s president.

  While he waited for the line to pick up, he suddenly had qualms about calling. Perhaps President Qian would feel left out if the rest of his Central Committee, the group he had personally assembled and cultivated as his closest advisors, was having too delightful a time without him at the world’s largest water park.

  He almost considered hanging up the phone. But he hung on the line.

  Strangely, President Qian’s private line continued to ring unanswered.

  Maybe the old leader was taking a break of his own.

  It was just as well. Yang signaled his oarsman to proceed into the caves for a last look at the centuries-old Buddha statues that would soon be submerged.

  May, in her long, greenish-blue chi pao dress, was looking desperately miserable. Earl had to fight back his excitement at attending such an historical occasion in China’s history in order to focus on his real task at hand. Somehow, he had to get her off the platform.

  Liang swayed left and right, cutting the ribbon, pointing to the closing floodgate, cupping a microphone in one hand, spinning around to study the frothing waters below, his other hand wandering around May’s arse as he leaned over the railing to get a better look. Earl could tell Liang enjoyed pushing everything to the edge.

  If he were a man, Earl would just lunge over there and throw that son-of-an-architect over the edge. He’d have
to be a much larger man, of course. Perhaps he could persuade the former California governor to give him a hand. He looked smaller in person. Did he still work out? Would they get that amendment rammed through? Get a hold of yourself! He had to concentrate.

  In close proximity to Liang was Professor Richter, who always sparkled around television cameras. He certainly was in his element now. Television commentators and print journalists from the various world news services slipped out of the crowd with microphones in hand to catch his verbal reaction.

  Suddenly, Earl had a wild impulse, a perfect plan to rescue May. The plan also served as just retribution for all the years of suffering that Professor Richter had inflicted on Brad. While Brad was risking his life to save a bunch of old geezers from a watery tomb, all the professor could do was grin like a baboon and suck up to any camera that would aim at his pompous puss.

  Earl sauntered up between the professor and yet another gorgeous Asian babe, a tele-journalist.

  “This is for Brad!” Earl screamed, and kicked his mentor squarely in the balls.

  Richter keeled over. The beautiful Korean correspondent stopped her question mid-sentence and looked on in shock as the professor squealed in agony and writhed on the podium.

  Earl went blank. Okay, that went well. So much for his academic career. Now what?

  Seeing the reporter transfixed, Earl seized her microphone and went sprinting through the gathering crowd toward May and Liang.

  In an act of macabre logic, the cameraman attached to the microphone took off in pursuit of Earl, tape rolling.

  “Little Liang, Little Liang,” Earl yelled in pidgin English.

  Liang looked confused at the sudden ruckus that appeared to be growing around him.

  “There has been an attack on one of your guests,” Earl cried in the microphone. “Professor Richter has been stricken in the jolly knockers. What will you do about this assassination attempt against his testicles?”

  May looked at Earl with her delicate eyebrows knit in thought. Then the puzzled look vanished. Perhaps she recognized him from that night at the Sonora Bar & Grill. No, that wasn’t likely.

  Perturbed, Liang jumped down from the railing and pushed his way toward the center of the crowd that stood over Richter.

  Earl handed the microphone to the confused cameraman standing beside him and grabbed May away from the railing. “Let’s go,” he cried, and yanked her by the hand.

  To his surprise, she complied. She trailed right behind him as he tried to fill her in.

  “Hi. You probably don’t remember me, but my name is Earl. I’m a friend of Brad’s. All my friends call me Skeeter.”

  He dodged an incoming photographer.

  “Well, actually only Brad calls me Skeeter, but that doesn’t mean I have only the one friend.”

  They ducked under the brass section that was puffing up their chests in preparation for another musical number.

  “Anyway, I think we’re in danger at the moment. That’s why we’ve got to get off of this thing. You see, I’m also tight with another friend of yours, Jade Wang.”

  “Where did Jade go? And where did Brad?”

  Earl continued his hurried explanation as they wove their way through an obstacle course of camera lights, planters, and a throng of people moving toward the staircase that led to the exit.

  “It’s a long story, but basically your buddy Liang is taking over the government, and Brad and Jade are trying to stop the river from flooding in order to rescue the Central Committee.”

  He studied the crowd’s dynamics. They seemed transfixed by conflicting emotions of excitement and fear of a terrorist attack. So far, no one was pursuing them directly.

  May looked over her shoulder toward Liang. He was busy trying to establish order as reporters surrounded the professor.

  Her hand froze in Earl’s. “I might as well go back. My life is over now anyway.”

  “Hey, don’t talk like that. You have a good man who loves you.”

  “But I will never be allowed to find my father.”

  Oh, no. Now wasn’t the time to mention her father’s untimely death.

  “Besides,” Earl said. “Looks like Liang is the one who poisoned the president.”

  That got to her. In an angry frenzy, she grabbed his hand and turned toward the stairs only to run headlong into a pair of armed guards. The two were forced to a halt.

  The soldiers looked confused and seemed to wait for some explanation as to why he and May were running.

  May straightened up in her slinky outfit and appeared ready to address the men as a military officer. Uh, that wouldn’t work.

  “Someone confused has a bomb on top of themselves,” Earl screamed in mangled Mandarin while pointing behind him.

  The soldiers sprang past him and ran toward the onlookers who were gawking at Richter.

  Earl coaxed May down the flight of stairs to the parking lot. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that her father had croaked. It would only exacerbate her suicidal tendency at the moment.

  Chapter 29

  Just as Brad leaned close to inspect the dig site, a shadow edged into view.

  His heart skipped a beat and he straightened up.

  How in that vast wasteland had someone managed to sneak up on him? Maybe it was some other poor sod who didn’t realize that the valley was about to become a marine sanctuary for three-headed frogs.

  “How do you do?” It was an old man with a thin white beard and an amused expression in his eyes. He extended a hand toward Brad.

  Brad took it, confused. “I’m fine.”

  “You are a scientist,” the old man said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The care and respect with which you treat this site.”

  Well, Brad saw no need for flattery. “I would hate it if some bonehead messed up my site.”

  Then he studied the man more closely. Despite the character’s long white hair, bowed legs, and stooped posture, Brad recognized something about him. It was the expression in his eyes.

  “You’re May’s father! I—I thought you were…”

  “Dead?”

  Brad nodded.

  “I had to seize the opportunity and make use of crafty means,” the man explained. “I thought I would leave blood near a work site in order to divert certain people’s attention.”

  Brad grinned. “No, not that. You have a death certificate in Chongqing. It says you drowned.”

  “What? With no investigation?” the scientist said with a shake of his head. “It looks like someone wants me out of the way, and those who were sent to cook the chicken were only too happy to find it had been done for them.” He indicated the fake trail of blood. “Or so they thought.”

  “Well, I know at least one charming and vivacious young lady who will be thrilled to see you.”

  “Please. I’m too old for such activities.”

  “I mean your daughter, sir.”

  “What do you know about my little dumpling?”

  “You’ve got some dumpling there, sir,” Brad said.

  The man raised his tangle of eyebrows. “Do you think so?” Then in the same breath, he said, “Is that why you are here?”

  Brad nodded. The idea sounded silly, even to him. He felt like an infatuated schoolboy. In reality, he hardly knew the girl.

  He turned his attention back to the excavation. “So, ah, have you found anything?”

  “Oh, a little something, perhaps. But why do you call me ‘So Ah?’ The name is Yu.”

  “I’m sorry, of course. Please. I’m Brad West, a student of physical anthropology. I’d be most honored to look at anything an esteemed and knowledgeable scientist such as you may have come upon.”

  The old man’s eyes cut straight through him. He wasn’t one to tolerate sycophants.

  “You have drawn the snake. Do not add feet to it.”

  “No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

  Dr. Yu pursed his lips and continued to size him up. Br
ad tried to show that he was neither a dummy, nor a threat.

  “Yes,” the professor said at last. “I have something to show you.”

  “But this site’s empty.”

  “The bird has flown, yet it has no wings,” Yu said with a mischievous grin. “Come with me.”

  He led Brad further along the trail of blood.

  “What do you have?” Brad asked, unable to contain his professional curiosity.

  “Old bones.”

  Brad felt his pulse quicken. “Where are they?”

  “Further up the valley.”

  Brad looked at his watch. It was half past four. “The Yangtze is being flooded as we speak.” He checked the water level. “The levee will burst soon and this tributary will quickly swell in size.”

  “I know. Water has been my primary adversary. That is why I moved my discovery to higher ground.”

  Then Brad caught the unmistakable sound of dirt and gravel breaking away. The levee was disintegrating behind them.

  Now would be a good time to make haste.

  “Perhaps we should get a move on,” Brad said. “I have another little mission to complete.”

  The row of chubby Buddha statues sat cross-legged in meditation. Their stone faces conveyed happy serenity in the wavering light of the river.

  Prime Minister Yang ducked, and his sampan drifted easily into the cave. The other three sampans were already there.

  The fourteen Central Committee members studied the statues in hushed awe. They may not have been religious men, but they did appreciate a monk’s life-long devotion to a cause. It was just one set of statues among others in several chambers of a network of caves.

  The center Buddha struck Yang as the most peaceful. Water rippled around its crossed ankles. Curiosity drew him further into the complex.

  “It is a shame this will eventually be lost,” the Minister of Culture said from the back of Yang’s sampan.

  Yang could only agree. “Such is the price we pay for progress.”