The audience fell quiet as a smarmy American stepped up onto the stage. He was the mayor of some town unknown to Han. The coordinator explained that the mayor of the state capital had evacuated with most of the population. “We needed an audience warm-up and someone to do your intro. He was the best we could do.”
“Now I know,” the pudgy man said to the captive studio audience, “that all of you are wonderin’ why we’re here. Now I don’t really know, myself, but if we all just keep calm…”
“That guy is wrong,” Han said. “No energy. I’m going on now.”
The coordinator ushered Han over to the curtain. A makeup artist touched up Han’s face and brushed his hair. Han was handed a wireless microphone. A well-dressed civilian assistant politely removed the local politician, whose only comment into the mike was, “Oh, okay.” The event coordinator held five fingers up and counted down to his fist. The music began, and the “Applause” sign lit up.
A smiling Han took the stage to the clapping of four hundred pairs of hands. The grim-faced locals had been briefed by a flier with bold-faced warnings against behavior viewed “inappropriate or anti-Chinese.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” Han said. The applause died down a beat too quickly as if it had been coerced, which of course it had. “Welcome to this town hall meeting! I’d like to thank the people of Jackson for turning out in such numbers.” He walked down the steps to the central aisle. “I know that these are uncertain times for all of you, but it’s that uncertainty that I’d like to address here tonight. I’d like to put you at ease about the change in administration.”
Han walked up to a dumpy woman who was somewhere between her late twenties and early fifties. “Ma’am, do you live here in Jackson?” The woman swallowed and nodded. “And before the war, did you or your husband work?”
She nodded. “Yes.” She wasn’t finished, and Han dipped the mike again. “I mean, we both worked.” She had a deep Southern accent.
Han checked the pinch-lipped faces of the crowd to make sure that everyone understood the answer. “And what did you do when you worked?”
“I was a bookkeeper,” she replied, “at… at an auto body shop.”
Han thought she seemed perfectly suited to such a job. “And do you work now?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No, sir. The owners, they’re gone. They left before…”
Han nodded sympathetically. He didn’t shrink uncomfortably from the subject. He felt her pain. “But… tell me something. Their establishment still stands, doesn’t it? There’s still a building.” She agreed that was true. “And inside there are tools, and parts, and books to keep?” She shrugged. “And so the only thing preventing you from returning to your job is that these owners have fled, leaving their property behind.”
“And… And they locked up.”
There was a murmur of anxious laughter. Han beamed as if she’d told the most marvelous joke, and he decided to tell a joke of his own. “Oh, that’s okay. We can take care of that.”
The Chinese studio directors, stagehands, and even the young soldiers in dress uniform all spoke English and thought Han’s remark amusing. But the Americans sat deathly still, wearing masks of fear or hatred or both.
Han had decided to do a town hall meeting for several reasons. The format was American. It would show people hiding in houses that they weren’t alone. It would exhibit interaction between Americans and the benign Administrator. And, finally, the audience would also serve as a test market. Han’s joke had not gone over well and would be edited from the broadcast.
Han rewound that tape in his mind and picked up as if he’d never attempted humor. “Well, I’m here to tell you that you can go back to your jobs. If you don’t have work, we will provide you with it. It’s your inalienable right to have a job, and we’ll see that you have one and are paid for the work that you do. I have commissioned census takers who will be visiting your homes to take account of your needs and skills. Once everybody is again gainfully employed, your economy can continue as before.”
Han now turned to a camera they had designated for close-ups. He paused thoughtfully for a few seconds. “If truth be told — and I speak for all the Chinese here in America, civilian and military — we have always been in awe of you Americans.” There were vigorous nods from the civilian crew, but a military camera crew filmed close-ups of stern-faced guards at the door, who with judicious editing of their own would appear to roundly disagree. “War is always, always,” Han emphasized, in one of his principal, scripted sound bites, “a terrible thing that every nation should strive to avoid. But no matter how hard all we men and women of good intentions strive, it sometimes cannot be averted. My personal view is that you’ve got to make the best of every situation, and the opportunity we Chinese and you Americans now have before us is to create a new and lasting partnership that will endure long after we Chinese have gone home.”
Now, Han had everyone’s attention — Chinese and Americans, soldier and civilian — equally. The end of war and the return of the Chinese to China was a desire shared by everyone below the rank of general… and below the rank of Administrator.
“We can teach you, and you can teach us. And together, we can show the world what true…”
A middle-aged man — seated sixth row center — bolted to his feet. Han’s heart skipped a beat, but the fool wasn’t armed. He shouted, “Death to the Chinese! Everybody take arms and fight!” Han’s mike sagged to his thigh, and he sighed as the yelling continued. His emotion metamorphosed from momentary fear into pity. “Kill every one of ’em you see! Long live America!”
Security troops seized the man, and Han shook his head. “We can beat them if we…!” Handsome soldiers in dress uniforms, moving efficiently but not hurriedly, put the man in an arm lock and covered his mouth with white gloves concealing ether-soaked gauze. He went limp, and men on either side easily hauled him from the studio. A replacement American civilian was brought from the back of the studio to fill the man’s empty seat. The event coordinator joined Han on the stage. “You wanta start over from the entrance?” he asked.
“No,” Han replied, “let’s take it from here. Just give me a second to talk to them.” Han raised the microphone and held it close to his lips so that his voice was louder than before. “That’s exactly what we didn’t want,” he boomed. The audience fell deathly silent and still. Han pointed at the dozen high-def studio cameras that ringed the captive crowd like machine guns. “This town hall meeting will be shown on television… tomorrow night. It is, of course, not a live broadcast.”
A single gunshot from outside was clearly audible. Han frowned and shook his head slowly at the waste. But it was really a perfect punctuation mark. He didn’t need to say anything more. He turned to the event coordinator and said over the studio speakers, “Let’s try this one more time.”
It was cold outside, and colder still in the concrete bunker. Stephie, John, Animal, Becky, Dawson, and Crane sat in the caked blood that had accumulated on the floor. Stephie and John both cradled in their laps squad automatic weapons with 600-round box magazines. Stephie’s neck was still heavily bandaged, stiff and sore. Her right arm and ribs were discolored from bruises that over the last week had turned six different colors. Her right arm rested in a self-made sling when, as then, she wasn’t fighting. Her ears still rang, and her head pounded dully against the the painkillers she took six times a day. Everyone in the bunker popped pills that left them in a stupor. Everyone, that is, but John Burns.