“No. They just oppose the military. In the earlier years, the civilians coerced and intimidated countries into alliances that accounted for nearly half of China’s territorial gains. The minister of trade and his son, Han Zhemin,” she said, looking Bill in the eye, “negotiated alliances with Laos, Malaysia, Indonesia, Pakistan, Iraq, and Kazakhstan. China’s military victories would have been impossible without those key diplomatic coups. After Tel Aviv, however, the military has gone it alone — without diplomatic support from the civilians — and has stalled at the Bosporus Straits.”
“They’ve succeeded in invading us,” Elizabeth Sobo pointed out sarcastically.
“But they haven’t beaten us,” Clarissa replied.
Baker couldn’t help but smile at the comeback. “No,” he said. “They haven’t. But you’re saying the Chinese military would be a helluva lot more formidable acting in concert with and not in opposition to the civilians. I agree. It should become our policy,” Baker announced — looking at Art Dodd, Clarissa’s boss—“to ensure that the schism in the Chinese leadership is never resolved and is, preferably, widened.”
Secretary of State Dodd nodded. After a moment, he lowered the tip of his pen to his notepad, but he seemed not to know what to write.
How could we possibly influence Chinese politics? Bill realized after his grandiose foreign policy pronouncement. In making a foreign policy pronouncement that he was impotent to effect he was beginning to move imaginary armies on the maps in his bunker. Nearly everyone obviously had the same thought and avoided eye contact with Baker. The only person who didn’t turn away just then was Clarissa Leffler. She studied him.
5
Young Lieutenant Wu stood staring at the concrete, shell-covered mailbox at the end of the driveway. A squad of troops nervously eyed the empty houses all along Sea Sprite Drive, none of which had been checked. Hot wind poured off the glistening blue Gulf waters. Tall reeds that obscured most of the white beach bent and bobbed in the breeze.
The house was nothing special. In fact, it was rather odd. Like all the other weather-beaten dwellings in the area, it was built on stilts. The dark windows were streaked with dirt.
Under the cover from the machine gun mounted atop the armored command car, Wu headed for the front door, which of course was locked. The squad, sensing his intentions, secured all four corners of the property. Wu rounded the house and stood in the shade of the open carport. The door there was locked also. He nodded at the sergeant. A quarter of the man’s face bore an unsightly scar from a bad burn. He was a combat veteran despite being, at most, twenty years old.
The sergeant shot the locks off the door. The roar of his weapon jarred Wu’s nerves in the semi-enclosed space. In all of his time around weapons on military school ranges, he had worn ear protection. His virgin ears now rang.
The splintered door was easily pried open, and Wu entered.
“Sir!” the sergeant said. There wasn’t room for his men to squeeze by Wu up the stairs and sweep the home in advance. Wu didn’t want them to. He wasn’t a civilian, like his father. He drew his pistol, chambered a round, and proceeded up the stairs.
Besides, he thought, the house is empty.
The kitchen lay at the top of the stairs. It was bare of any traces of life, as was the family room. Wu drew the slatted, folding shades back, revealing a wall of windows overlooking the snowy beach and deep blue Gulf.
The soldiers held their rifles raised, but their faces grinned as they looked back and forth among each other. Silently commenting on the beautiful scene. The beautiful home.
The sergeant barked an order, and they dispersed to secure the remainder of the home.
Wu searched. Master bedroom. Master bath. A small sitting room or study. A smallish bedroom with tape marks on the walls where posters had been hung. This is it, he thought. In the bathroom there was a vanity with a round mirror inside an oval of bright lights.
He looked through each of the drawers in the bathroom. There was nothing there but a few strands of hair, some Q-Tips, and a Band-Aid. The soldiers watched in curiosity as Wu got on his knees and looked inside cabinets. He retrieved from the carpet a plastic comb that goes in a girl’s hair and slipped it into his pocket. He looked in the closet.
“Come here and give me a boost,” he said to the men at the door.
One flexed his knees and cupped his hands. Wu stepped into his hands as another soldier steadied him. He was boosted up to the top shelves inside the closet, almost slamming his head onto the door frame. The straining soldiers argued over the near miss in whispers beneath him.
Wu reached for the flat disk that lay under a coat of dust on the shelf.
When he was lowered to the floor, he blew the dust from the DVD. The label read, Space Marines No. 3: Alien Invasion. In small print, it read, “Starring Bill Baker.”
Wu chuckled, and the soldiers smiled without knowing why.
Wu took the disk with him and left.
The small military helicopter landed with a thud amid swirling sand. Bill Baker could see nothing through the window but clouds of dust. Crew members stirred and helped the president unbuckle as the rotors spun to a stop. The door opened to admit the sounds of wind and of the voices of command.
“There!” someone barked. “Chock it!”
Bill emerged into brilliant sunlight and still swirling grit. He winced as the tiny pellets pelted his eyes. He ducked and averted his face. Men crawled under the helicopter, placing rubber chocks in front of and behind its tires. Hands seized Bill and ushered him across the hard ground.
At his feet opened a dark mouth whose teeth were rows of concrete steps.
Sand ground under the soles of Bill’s shoes as he descended into the quieter hollows of the earth. The breeze died amid the hard walls. Then the sound. Then the light. A hatch was held open by a man in an air force jumpsuit, who saluted with his free hand. Bill nodded and entered the cavernous facility.
Thunderous applause filled the underground factory. Workers wearing hard hats and color-coded overalls clapped and cheered below the railing at which Bill stood. There was no microphone, but there was no need for one. When the hatch shut behind Bill, the thud and squeak echoed off the hard walls, floor, and ceiling.
Bill had no prepared speech. The applause died down to a stir common to roused crowds. Bill felt at home despite the unusual surroundings.
“I appreciate,” Bill boomed out over the heads of his audience as he held his hands out to the surroundings, “such a warm welcome in your little home away from home, here.” There was laughter. Everywhere that Bill looked in the bunker-like chamber he saw strictly utilitarian decor. Painted lines — color-coordinated with workers’ overalls — branched out through round bore holes through the earth. Railings criss-crossed the ceilings in what looked like a train terminal hung upside down in the bizarre, subterranean land. It was all concrete and steel with one exception that captured Bill’s rapt focus. A large American flag hung from one lone, bare wall.
“You are engaged,” Bill continued as many heads turned to follow his to stare at the flag, “in a great endeavor that may soon save our beleaguered nation. While no one yet knows of your great, secret mission, one day all will praise the work that you have done.” The applause erupted again. Bill thought it was particularly fervent. These people — scientists, engineers, programmers, accountants, workers — had left their families over a year ago as if departing on a long voyage. The secrecy, he realized — the separation — must weigh heavily on their hearts and minds. “Now, I can’t wait to see what you’ve done.”