Ma had loved the plane, which was a delight to fly. Unfortunately he didn’t get to fly it often. The fuel and maintenance budget allowed each pilot to fly no more than two or three times a month, and then only in excellent weather. Fearful that the undertrained pilots might crash if they tried to fly aggressively, the generals insisted that the planes be flown as near to the center of their performance envelopes as possible. These doctrine limitations were universal throughout the air force.
Although the Chinese licensed the Su-27 design from the Russians for manufacture in order to upgrade the capabilities of their air force, the set-in-stone training limitations did not change. Ma and his fellow fighter pilots were strictly forbidden to perform aerobatic maneuvers or stress the airplanes in any way that might increase the risk of losing the plane. Consequently, their fortnightly training flights consisted of a straightforward climb to altitude, followed by a straight and level intercept under the control of a ground-based radar operator — a ground-controlled intercept, or GCI — then a return to base.
Ma Chao had spent his adult life with this system, never questioning it. The revelation occurred in Hong Kong a month after he arrived. One evening a woman he had come to know showed him a videotape of an Su-27 aerobatic performance at a Paris air show years before. Ma was astounded by the airplane’s capabilities, which had been there all the time, waiting for the pilot with the courage to utilize them.
It seemed that all the assumptions upon which Ma Chao’s life was based were equally suspect. Ma Chao soon discovered that Hong Kong, with its high-tech, high-rise, high-rent hustle and bustle and diversity, was as close to paradise as he would ever get. Every trip away from the squadron spaces was sensory overload, a cultural adventure that Ma and his friends found extraordinarily fascinating.
When he was finally approached by members of Wu Tai Kwong’s Scarlet Team, he was an easy recruit. From the cockpit of an Su-27 he could see the future. Wu Tai Kwong was absolutely right: The great city of Hong Kong that Ma Chao flew over every two weeks was the future of the Chinese people; the rice paddies and poverty of the mainland were the past.
This June night Ma Chao was in the barracks preparing for bed when his cell phone rang. The cell phone was one of the wonders of the new age — Ma hadn’t even known such things existed until he came to Hong Kong. This one was very special and could not be purchased commercially. This phone handled normal cellular telephonic communications well enough, but it also received covert wide bandwidth messages that were broadcast over commercial television signals. Since the WB signals degraded normal television reception slightly, this technology was never going to be approved for commercial use.
Tonight the message was a single line of traditional Chinese poetry. Ma Chao knew precisely what the code meant: Tomorrow!
Sonny Wong also knew what the message meant when he heard it. The senior leadership of the Scarlet Team had decided that the cause was more important than Wu Tai Kwong.
Sonny was certain that would be the decision, but it was nice to see events work out as he had predicted they would.
The government had provided the opening; the Scarlet Team would lead the revolution of the Chinese people. Sonny Wong would collect fifty million dollars from Virgil Cole and ten million from Rip Buckingham, a nice comfortable fortune that he would keep in Switzerland. This pile would be his safety net, his rainy day money, to be used if the Communists proved too tough to crack.
Once he had the money, he would eliminate Wu, Virgil Cole, and Hu Chiang. With these three out of the way, he would be in position to take over the Scarlet Team.
Yes, indeed, thought Sonny Wong, if he played his cards correctly, he could conceivably wind up as the next ruler of China. Emperor Wong. President Wong. Premier Wong. Whatever.
Or he could sell the Scarlet Team to the Communists and retire rich, rich, rich… live on the French Riviera, play baccarat at Monte Carlo…
The loss of the restaurant this evening was an irritant, but only that.
He had dealt with brashness and disrespect before — and those fools were long gone. Jake Grafton was as good as dead: Sonny had already given the order.
Many of the students at the University of Hong Kong were not asleep this night. They were huddled together in apartments and bars all over the city. When the WB cell phones rang and they heard the coded message, a cheer went up.
Then they dispersed, went home to try to sleep a few hours and prepare for the day to come.
One of the people with a WB cell phone — made in California and smuggled in by China Bob Chan for Third Planet Communications — was Lieutenant Hubert Hawksley of the Hong Kong police. Hawksley had come to Hong Kong as a soldier in the British Army way back when and liked it so much he wangled a police job when his army enlistment was up.
Other British policemen left when Hong Kong was turned over to the Communists, but Hawksley stayed. Through the years he had enjoyed a fine income, very little of which came to him in his pay envelope. He found the oriental way of life congenial and thought he understood the Chinese. Try as he might, he could not imagine that the Communists would be less corrupt than the colonial British. That opinion proved to be prophetic.
One of Hubert Hawksley’s many professional acquaintances was Sonny Wong. Sonny had paid Hawksley quite a pile of money over the years. The thing about Sonny was that he was regular. Every month as regular as the post the money arrived. Cash.
One day a year or so ago Sonny had approached Hawksley at the floating restaurant, one of Hawksley’s hangouts. He had joined the policeman at the bar, torn up Hawksley’s tab, and ordered a beer himself.
“Are you hearing any rumors these days?” Sonny wanted to know when he finally got around to business.
“About what?”
“Sedition. Treason. Antirevolutionary goings-on.”
“All the time,” the policeman said genially. “The regime is vigilant. The secret police are on the job.”
“They pass intelligence to you?”
“Of course. We keep them informed, they keep us informed.”
“I was wondering if you might make me a copy of any information you receive along those lines. My friends and I would be willing to pay.”
“How much?” Hawksley asked sharply.
“Five thousand Hong Kong a month.”
“My risk is large,” Hawksley replied.
“Six, then.”
“Seven.”
Sonny paused to think that over. “Of course,” he said, ‘our long-standing arrangements would be unaffected.”
“Of course.”
“In addition to knowing what the state security people tell you, we would like to… shall we say… edit… any reports along these lines that the force passes to state security.”
“Ahhh…”
Hawksley ordered another glass of stout while he thought about whom he would have to bribe to make that happen. He explained the organizational reality to Wong, then tried to estimate what the responsible people would need in the way of money to help Wong out.
“They mustn’t know my name, of course,” Sonny muttered. “Some of them might take my money and whisper my name. That would be bad.”
“Not cricket,” Hawksley agreed.
They settled on a figure of twenty thousand Hong Kong, which had to be adjusted up a couple of thousand when one of the captains on the force proved to be greedier than Hawksley had estimated.
Since then Hawksley had learned a great deal about the Scarlet Team, and he had passed much of what he learned right back to Sonny. Various people had tried to betray Wu Tai Kwong, of course, and they had disappeared from Hong Kong, never to be seen again. A few people thought they could become police informants, one or two wanted to explain about sabotage plans.