Wu was the only person wearing a uniform in the inner sanctum, and every corporate warrior that he passed clearly knew exactly who he was. The corridors seemed unusually filled with loitering staffers who cast stealthy glances Wu’s way. The bolder thirty-somethings in buttoned suits nodded and smiled at Wu. Information techs and personal assistants ten years their junior couldn’t help the shock of seeing the white bandage on Wu’s face. For them — like Wu — this was their first war.
When Wu glanced at his father, he saw that Han was shocked. His bastion had been breached by Wu’s surging popularity. Han’s mouth hung open slightly as he watched his people watch Wu. He dabbed at dry lips with his tongue but said nothing. He checked repeatedly to see that his jacket was buttoned, though he was immaculate and groomed after a shower and close shave. His hands fidgeted about his tie, collar, and hair, though none were out of place.
It hurt Wu to see his father like that. He felt awful for a man who felt nothing for him.
His father had always been power incarnate. The living representation of the concept in human form. All of Wu’s life Han’s mere existence had propelled him forward. A million courtesies had been extended to the young Wu. Privilege granted the boy not for money, but to curry favor with Wu’s powerful family. Credits banked with perhaps what might become the greatest dynasty in China’s history.
Han Zhemin — the manifestation of Wu’s security and Wu’s only link to that dynasty — was crumbling right before Wu’s eyes.
The windowless core of the fortieth floor was tightly guarded by at least a platoon of civilian bodyguards. The new, thick-necked imports were everywhere, and they were armed to the teeth. They wore Kevlar fashioned into attractive black business suits. Their ear buds would’ve been invisible had it not been for the stubby mike protruding from one lobe. As Han and Wu passed, the stone-faced killers whispered into their radios, and doors just ahead of them opened on cue.
But the most noticeable feature of the menacing, silent brutes was the black, full-size assault rifle that each carried at port arms. Their trim waists bulged with magazines of ammo inside loose-hanging but well-tailored body armor. Their only gesture to office decorum was to hang their black form fitting helmets on the backs of their necks where — with the proper choreography — they might remain just out of sight of television cameras.
Their scalps bore only black bristles, Wu noticed, except for the women. They had hair cut fashionably short. A style, Wu thought, that wouldn’t get flattened under a helmet’s webbing. The black-clad, well-armed females who were sprinkled among the men carried box-fed automatic weapons. They wore differently cut black suits, but the dead-eyed women were obviously made of the same material as the men.
They’re security ministry special ops, Wu realized. Probably arrived straight from the elite divisions in and around Beijing. Wu was fascinated. He’d never seen the cutting edge of civilian steel. The men and women who preserved the lives day to day of the prime minister and his government. Surely, this must signal that the conflict with the military was reaching a climactic finale.
Han led Wu past a receptionist into the communications center. An older, stockier man stood at a desk issuing orders into thin air. The directional microphone, barely visible at his earlobe, picked up his low murmurs. He wore the black uniform of security ministry troops. He had the look and tone of voice of an officer.
Wu stopped beside the officer and casually asked, “How many of your men have arrived from Beijing?” It was Wu’s first informal test of his new power. Would the graying security ministry officer give the young army officer such vital intelligence?
“In Richmond?” the older man replied. “A division.” He seemed to take pleasure from Wu’s surprise at how large the security ministry force was. A smile from one soldier to another soldier, of a sort. “The prime minister is waiting, Lieutenant Han Wushi,” Wu’s new comrade in arms intoned.
A division? Wu thought. Ten thousand troops? Civilian soldiers from Beijing deployed in strength outside China for the first time in a decade of war.
Wu followed his father through the final door into a darkened circular conference room. The only light came from the epicenter where a four-seat teleconference station glowed. As he had done the last time they had spoken to the civilian leadership, Wu took a seat opposite Han before a console with a camera, speakers, and a wide, solid blue screen. His father — whose face was well lit — stared at Wu from a distance of five feet. Han’s face was expressionless. They couldn’t yet see Beijing, but Beijing was probably already watching them.
Pictures nearly simultaneously sprung into three of the four windows on Wu’s console. The prime minister’s suddenly beaming face was flanked by the trade and security ministers. The fourth pane remained dark. “Han Wushi!” the prime minister exclaimed. The three old men grinned and almost cheered Wu’s name. Wu’s glowering father was now just a glum witness to events.
“Can I take this opportunity,” the beaming prime minster said, “to say just how honored we are to have you in our family.” As Wu looked across the consoles at Han, he couldn’t help but be struck by the contrasting impact of the praise on father and son. The prime minister’s words meant so much to Wu’s devastated father, and so precious little to an unmoved Wu. “Your name is on the lips of Chinese everywhere, Han Wushi,” continued the prime minister. “Your bravery is unsurpassed.”
Wu looked away from the screens in disgust. “Don’t be so modest!” the minister of trade — Wu’s grandfather — teased Wu. The two brothers — the prime minister and minister of trade — both laughed.
The security minister smiled, but said nothing. Wu focused on the man, a fact noted by all.
“I have a question,” Wu said to the aged security minister in the dishwater gray suit. His skin hung loose, and his lips were thin, but his black eyes sparkled in the camera light. He nodded for Wu to proceed. “Why did you send security troops to America?” The prime minister and minister of trade looked at each other then waited.
The internal security general in civilian’s clothes simply shrugged. “Security,” he answered, “over Chinese territory.”
“And General Sheng invited you here?” Wu pressed. He looked up at his father. Han ever so noticeably shook his head, cautioning Wu.
“We do not need to ask General Sheng for permission,” the prime minister reminded Wu.
“Then,” Wu said slowly and carefully, “there will be war between security troops and the army.”
Everyone fell silent. Wu had asked a question that should not have been asked. “Not necessarily,” the prime minister said. “The army defends the borders. The security ministry defends what’s inside those borders.”
“Everyone who is inside those borders,” the security minister clarified.
Wu nodded at each of the faces of the decrepit old men. He understood the security minister’s thinly veiled, evil threat. The civilians’ trump card was the families of the military’s officer corps. “I have another question,” Wu said. “A request, actually.” The minister of trade in his window looked at the prime minister in his. It was then that Wu realized all three men were together in the same room. They were in the same type of teleconference apparatus as Wu and Han.