Invasion: Alaska

-2- Desperation

The mall was a bad idea, Paul Kavanagh told himself. There were too many people around. It was the reason his ex had chosen to come here. It would make her feel safer: the mall cops, the crowds… and a place where there was merchandise. Buying things always made his ex feel better.

Thinking about that—the clothes for the little man, the washer and dryer she needed and tires for her rundown Ford—Paul nodded. He had to do this. His ex wouldn’t understand. She never had, but the state of the economy meant he had no choice. The Sovereign Debt Depression had supposedly eased several years ago, but tell that to a man whose Marine record ended with a dishonorable discharge. Who had a hard time finding a job. Tell that to someone whom the shrinks said had a difficult time with authority. It wasn’t authority he had trouble with, but assholes.

Paul shoved his hands into his old leather jacket and turned around, scanning the crowds. He was surprised at how many teenagers there were, seeing as it was one-fifteen in the afternoon. Weren’t they supposed to be in school? Was it a holiday now because that oil rig had exploded?

Paul ran a hand through his short brown hair. There was something dangerous in his eyes that made the obvious gang-members look away—at least the intelligent ones and those who thrived by trusting their concrete-sharpened instincts. Paul was a little over six feet, with a linebacker’s shoulders and the trim hips of his college days when he used to slam running backs into the turf. He’d tried out for the pros ten years ago, but had been too light, too small for the steroid-pumped gladiators. Marine Recon had been the next best thing—while it had lasted.

Paul sighed. Cheri was always late. So he didn’t know why he was letting it bother him. She would come, and she’d bring Mikey. She had promised over the phone.

A worried look entered Paul’s eyes. The expression didn’t fit on his tanned features. It seemed wrong, incongruous, an anomaly. What if she didn’t come? Even worse, what if she came but left Mikey home?

Paul sat abruptly on the yellow tiles of the built-up pond near the main mall entrance. His elbow hit his motorcycle helmet, which rested there. The helmet scraped against the tiles as it shot toward the water. Paul barely twisted around in time to catch the helmet, an exhibition of speed and reflexes wasted on the passing crowds. Catching his helmet made him look at the water it had nearly fallen into. Now he saw the pennies, nickels, and dimes glittering there.

I could use a little luck.

He stood again, keeping hold of his helmet, and dug in his jeans pocket. There was a quarter. He made his wish and flipped the coin. It plopped into the water and swayed back and forth until it settled onto the cement.

“Paul?”

Kavanagh spun around, surprised at the quick granting of the wish. His face creased into a smile. It changed him, taking years off his features and showing a sense of vulnerability that had been missing until now.

Little Mikey held onto his mother’s hand. Mikey was six, wore an oversized SF Giant’s baseball cap and had mischievous blue eyes.

“Daddy!” he shouted, ripping his hand from Cheri’s grasp.

Mikey ran full tilt and launched himself as Paul squatted. He caught his boy, surprised at the kid’s weight and the strength of the leap. It knocked Paul back so he bumped against the tiled pond.

“I knocked you back, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.

Paul grinned, straightening himself and taking off the little man’s cap. He messed up sweaty blond hair as Mikey laughed. The peculiar odor of unwashed boy knifed Paul in the heart. In a wave of love, he clutched his son.

“Squeeze me harder, Daddy.”

Paul squeezed, and he put his nose in Mikey’s hair. What had he ever done to help make a wonder like this? By everything holy, he loved this little man.

“Are you going to move back home, Daddy?” The words were muffled in his jacket, but they were loud in Paul’s heart.

“Not just yet,” Paul heard himself say.

“When?” asked Mikey.

Paul wanted to say, “That will depend on your mother,” but he knew that wasn’t fair. It had been just as much his fault as Cheri’s.

He released Mikey and looked up at his ex-wife. She hugged herself, and for a moment, she looked so sad, almost like a lost little girl. She was beautiful, a small woman with long dark hair and a gymnast’s grace.

Long hair—she must be using extensions again. Those cost an easy three hundred. No wonder she couldn’t stay within her budget.

Maybe she saw the change in him as he thought about her spending too much money. Her shoulders stiffened. He’d wished more than once that his tracking instincts were as sharp.

“Hello, Paul,” she said.

Her voice dried the emotions in him. They let him know where he stood with her. He had known. It was just…the hope in Mikey must have transferred into him. Irrationally, he thought about taking the little that was left in his account, changing it into coins, and tossing them one after another into the wishing pond. If the quarter had worked, why not throw in more and fix his life?

He stood, and he found himself clutching the bottom rim of his motorcycle helmet. He wished he could roar like a linebacker and charge into the crowd, flailing right and left with his helmet. If he could knock everyone down, he’d get his old life back. Just the chance to try would be good enough. It was knowing he had absolutely no chance of fixing things that was so galling.

“I’m here just like I said I’d be,” Cheri told him, with her arms crossed. She wasn’t hugging herself anymore. The crossed arms were a shield.

Her tone of voice made it a struggle. Paul scowled. He looked down and saw the little man staring up at him. The shiny face, the smile, they crumpled so fast it startled Paul. Mikey’s lower lip quivered and tears welled in his eyes.

“Hey,” Paul said. He squatted, set his helmet on the scuffed floor and hugged his boy. The poor fellow bit back his sobs and he started hiccupping.

“I won’t cry, Daddy,” Mikey whispered.

“No, no, you’re a tough guy,” Paul said as he patted Mikey on the back.

The little man shoved his face against Paul’s upper chest and began to bawl, the sounds muffled against leather.

“Is this what you wanted?” Cheri asked.

Paul looked up helplessly at his ex-wife.

“No,” she said. “You’re not going to make this my fault.”

Paul stared at the floor as he continued to pat his son on the back. What a lousy world. It wasn’t supposed to work like this. A man grew up, got married, had kids and barbecued on weekends. Maybe he took his kid to a ball game on Sunday. Paul sighed as the mall crowds passed. What made it worse was feeling how threadbare Mikey’s shirt was. That shot a bolt of anger into him. Cheri must have chosen this shirt on purpose, to rub his nose in their lack of money.

Don’t lose your temper. Show your son how to act. Leave him something good to remember about you until next time.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Paul gently pried Mikey from his chest. He grinned, and used the end of his sleeve to wipe the little man’s runny nose. “I wanted you to come to the mall so I could tell you goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” Mikey asked in a lost voice. “Are you leaving us forever, Daddy?”

“Hey buddy, don’t give me that shit.”

“Don’t swear in front of him,” Cheri said.

A scowl flashed across Paul’s face before he nodded. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said, as he looked down at his boy. “Don’t swear, okay?”

“I won’t,” Mikey said.

“And listen to your mother.”

“I will.”

“Did you lose your job again?” Cheri asked, with just the right touch to her voice to make it a deep-cutting question.

Paul looked up slowly, even as he kept squatting beside his son.

“Yeah, it figures,” she said, but not in the same tone as before. These words had more deadness to them.

“I’ll still make the payments,” he said.

Cheri made a soft sound through her nose as she looked away.

“I already have a new job.”

“Is it selling shoes this time?” Cheri asked.

Instead of getting angry, he kept his tone light. “I’m not a salesman, baby. You know that.”

Her head whipped around, and her brown eyes were wide as she stared at him. “Paul,” she said reproachfully.

How did she do that? How could she know he was about to do something dangerous? “Look,” he said. “I didn’t have any choice. No one’s hiring guys like me around here.”

“You’re going to use a gun again, aren’t you?”

“Lighten up,” he said. “Guns are what I know.”

“Didn’t the Marines teach you anything?” she asked. “The military wants brownnosing more than anyone. You said so yourself.”

“Peacetime military does, yeah.”

“Paul, what are you getting yourself into?”

He heard the worry in her voice. It surprised him. He noticed that Mikey had quit sniffling and was watching his mother.

“You said—” she began.

“Wait,” he said, standing. He extracted a rumpled envelope from his back pocket. It was far too skinny and it had almost cleaned out his account. That showed how pathetically small his account was. He held it out to her.

Cheri stared at the envelope and then looked up at him.

“Two thousand,” he said.

“Is it blood money?”

“Come on, Cheri. What do you think I am?”

“You lost your job again. You only had this one a month. What happened? Why couldn’t you keep it this time?”

“It doesn’t matter now,” he said. “I’ll send more later. I know it sounds—”

“What have you gotten yourself into?” she asked, as she took the envelope.

He shrugged, making leathery crinkling sounds with his jacket.

“Are you a bodyguard to one of the corporate clones?” she asked.

“Yeah, I’d last real long doing that.”

“You’re not going into collections with the repo companies, are you?”

That was a tough job in the big cities. Cops only went into some areas with tracked vehicles or in armored choppers, and then only in packs.

“What do you think my discharge means?” he asked. “Around here I can’t do anything that involves guns.”

“Then I don’t get it. How can you be giving me two thousand?” Her eyes widened again. “Unless you’re selling drugs. I hope you’re not selling drugs.” She hesitated, gripping the envelope, obviously thinking about handing it back, but dearly needing the money.

Paul sighed. She’d never understood his stint with the Marines and had positively hated Marine Recon. The funny thing was it had been their best time together, especially with the crazy action in Quebec when his battalion and a few others had been on loan to the Canadian Government. It had been the best because he’d been gone and they’d written emails and texted. She’d been pregnant then, too, and that might have helped.

“You’ve been watching the news about the oil rig?” he asked.

“The one that exploded?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s screwing up the coast,” she said, “killing seals and otters.”

“Well, it didn’t just explode,” he said.

“Terrorists?” she asked.

“People are saying there are three candidates. Al-Qaeda, Iran or the Aztlan separatists.”

“Aztlan? You mean the Aztec people?”

“Yeah, them,” he said. Aztlan separatists were still big in L.A. Too many places here had huge graffiti signs showing their support. However, since the civil war in Mexico had ended, the big Mexican separatist movement in the southwestern U.S. had died down. Fortunately for California, it had never gotten as bad here as it had with the French-speaking separatists in Canada. That had been full-blown combat, the start of civil war in their northern neighbor.

“The Aztecs blew up the oil rig?” Cheri asked.

“No one’s claiming responsibility. They’re just one of the suspects. The thing is, most commentators doubt they would have caused such environmental damage to their own coast. Whoever it was must have used some pretty sophisticated equipment.”

“What does any of this have to do with you?” Cheri asked.

“Security,” he said.

“You better not be thinking of doing something crazy.”

Paul shook Mikey’s shoulder and pointed at a candy wagon about thirty feet away. As he dug out his wallet and took out a five, he said, “Why don’t you ask that old lady by the wagon to get you some gummy bears?”

“Yeah!” said Mikey, speaking the word with the same inflection Paul would have used. Mikey snatched the five and ran to the candy wagon.

Paul kept his eye on Mikey as he spoke to Cheri. “Blacksand runs security for most of the Western oil companies. The blogs say they lost some people in the explosion.”

“You can’t work for Blacksand,” Cheri said. “I remember when you wanted to work for them before—Blacksand demands a clean record.”

“Right, normally a dishonorable would stop them from hiring a real soldier. But there are two reasons why they’re willing to take me on a provisional basis now.”

“What are they?”

Paul still watched his son. Mikey was talking to the old candy lady with a dress that went all the way to the floor. His boy pointed back at him. The old woman looked over. She was wearing dark sunglasses. Was the candy lady blind? Paul waved. The old woman smiled and waved back. Then she bent down to Mikey, spoke to him, accepted the five-dollar bill and examined the candy wagon.

“With this latest terrorist act,” Paul said, “working security on an oil rig has turned into hazardous duty. That means more than a few people who would normally do it are getting jittery. That’s good, though, because Blacksand just raised their rates. The oil companies want beefed security on all their rigs. They don’t want this happening again.”

“There must be tons of people eager for security work,” Cheri said, “especially if it pays well.”

“So why hire an ace like me?” Paul asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”

“You know that isn’t what I mean.”

“Yeah?”

“Paul, I don’t want you to die.”

“Me neither,” he said after a moment.

“What’s the second reason?” Cheri asked. “The real reason Blacksand is willing to overlook your discharge?”

“That’s the funny thing—the kicker. They want a snow-weather veteran.”

“You mean that time you fought in the Canadian Shield?”

The Canadian Shield was a huge geological region that curved around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. Few people lived in the region, as it was unsuitable for agriculture. The Shield was dotted with lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines.

“It was northern Quebec, where it was as cold as Hell,” he said.

“Hell is hot. You fought in blizzards and snowstorms. Where do people have oil rigs in places like that? I thought most oil derricks were found in deserts.”

Paul hesitated to tell her.

“Is it going to be cold where you’re going?” she asked.

“I’m flying to the Arctic Circle,” he said.

The energy crunch meant the oil companies were hunting for crude wherever they could find it. The new bonanza was the Arctic Circle and Antarctica.

“Do you mean Alaska?” Cheri asked.

“I wish I did. No. The Arctic Circle…the rig is in the Arctic Ocean.”

“Isn’t it icy up there all the time?”

“Yeah,” he said. He remembered reading somewhere that the ice used to melt in summer, or a lot of it did. That must have been before it had gotten cold again. A new glacial period, they called it. He remembered watching a history show about the Black Death in the Middle Ages. There had been harsher weather back then, too. It had hurt the crops and vineyards just as it did these days. The whole thing went in cycles, apparently. Now it was their turn, and according to what he’d looked up, it made the Arctic almost as cold as space.

“I’m going to the closest rig to the North Pole,” he said. “I’ll be knocking on Santa Claus’s door.”

“Is it dangerous?”

It had to be dangerous if they were willing to hire him. Near the North Pole—did the wind howl all night long? It was supposed to be dark half of the year.

“I can’t see how,” he lied.

“So why do they need you then?”

“It’s all about insurance. If you look at things deeply enough it always goes back to the money.” Had that been true about them? Once the government had kicked him out of the Marines, he’d had one job after another, and they’d steadily been crappier jobs each time. The money had started drying up and so had their marriage.

Cheri glanced at the envelope in her hand. Looking thoughtful, she slid her purse off a shoulder, clicked it open and buried the two thousand in it. As she slid the loops back onto her shoulder, she looked into his eyes. “Take care of yourself up there, and try to keep this one, okay? We need the money.”

He forced himself to nod. “Are you and Mikey doing okay?”

“I’m almost finished with Beauty College. I’m already cutting hair on the side.”

“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.

Her lips firmed. “We agreed you weren’t supposed to ask that.”

A stab of heat burned in his chest. She’d laid that down as a condition for him seeing Mikey. The courts had screwed him, giving her full custody. He supposed none of that mattered now that he was headed for the Arctic Circle.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” he said.

“Mikey will like that.”

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

She cocked her head, and her lips parted. “Try to get along more at work, okay? You’re too much of a loner.”

He hated when she said that. “I’ll tell him goodbye.”

“Don’t leave mad,” she said.

“I’m not.”

“Okay,” she said, her face tightening, “if that’s the way you want it, I’m fine with that.”

He took a deep breath and counted to three. “I’m not mad. I’m glad you came.”

Cheri studied his face. He waited for a smile to break out as it used to in the beginning. Instead, she said, “Goodbye, Paul.”

The way she said it—he paused. There was something final in her words, something almost fated. He picked up his helmet, managed to give her a nod and turned toward the candy wagon. Mikey was racing back with a bag of gummy bears clutched in his fist. His son was laughing. He liked that.

“Run harder, little man!” shouted Paul.

Mikey put his head down and he ran full out. The tennis shoes slapped the floor as he approached. Paul dropped his helmet, grabbed Mikey under the armpits and threw him into the air above his head. Mikey squealed with delight. Cheri had never liked him doing that, but who knew when he’d see his boy again. Paul caught Mikey and hugged him tightly.

“I love you, big guy.”

“Me too,” Mikey said, breathlessly.

Paul set him down and knelt on one knee. “You take care of your mother, okay?”

“I will.”

“I’ll visit you in a few months when I have some time off.”

“Promise?” Mikey asked with something close to desperation.

“Of course I promise,” Paul said.

“And call, Daddy.”

“I will,” Paul said, standing up.

“Wait, Daddy!” Mikey said. He opened his striped bag of gummy bears. “You have to eat one of these with me first.”

Paul recognized the delaying tactic, and for a moment, there was a stab of pain in his heart. If he were a better person, things might have worked between Cheri and him.

“Thanks,” Paul said, smiling at his son as he took an orange gummy bear.

“Eat it, Daddy.”

Paul did, hardly tasting a thing.

“Take some with you for the road,” Mikey said.

“You be a good boy,” Paul whispered.

Mikey nodded.

The striped bag crinkled as Paul dug out some more gummy bears. Then he turned away, heading out. He couldn’t take any more of this.

“Bye, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.

Paul turned back one last time, lifting his motorcycle helmet, waving goodbye. He waved an extra time for Cheri, as she stepped up to Mikey. Then Paul Kavanagh was stumbling for the mall entrance, oblivious to the gang members he brushed out of the way.

Someday, he was going to do things right.

The growing, seething mob chanted angrily. Many waved their fists at the video cameras, the ubiquitous cams that hung from streetlights, buildings, and sometimes from tethered balloons. A few of the rioters shook rocks or sticks. The glass buildings surrounding the street reverberated with their chants. A packed mob, they filled the street and sidewalks like rush-hour pedestrians in any major Chinese city. Chest-to-chest, shoulder-to-shoulder, they swayed with repressed power. They were hungry, cold and bitter.

It was blustery, and most of the crowd wore gray overcoats. Over eighty percent were men under thirty and they were uniformly thin. They pressed against each other, shoving at times, often asking if it was true:

Were the trucks leaving with their rice?

The front of the shuffling horde stood before the main gate to the massive rice processing plant. Several years ago, the institute had installed an iron fence, bars ten feet tall and with barbed points on top. Some chanters thrust their arms between the bars, shaking their fists at the militiamen on guard or recording them on their cell phones.

The thin line of militia behind the main gate stirred uneasily. It was supposed to be a routine shipment. The militiamen had arrived early this morning to provide security during transport and hadn’t expected anything like this. The eighteen soldiers gripped shiny rifles. Despite the chill, most of their faces glistened with sweat. Behind them rumbled a fleet of hidden semis—big ultra-modern haulers filled to capacity—that planned to transport the rice to the coastal region.

There was another man listening to the semis rumble. He was a former American, and he stood at the front of the mob. At times the pressure from behind pushed him against the gate. He didn’t know it, but more people kept arriving. They joined the throng and packed the street as they added their chants. The echoing sounds were like thunder to others in the city, drawing the curious and frightening the rest, particularly the police and local Party members.

The former American, Henry Wu, gripped cold bars as bodies pressed against him. He grunted and pushed with his arms, straining as he shoved his back against the men behind, trying to gain breathing room. Henry had immigrated to China four years ago in 2028. He was a tractor driver, and had been living in the city his father had escaped twenty-five years ago. Most of the Chinese in Hanzhong were Han, but Henry was Manchu—a trifle taller than those around him and possessed of a singular difference: a gun.

Gaining space, Henry released the bars and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. In the left pocket his fingers curled around a Glock 19, an old semiautomatic smuggled into China when he’d immigrated. Henry was sick of being hungry, and along with everyone else he was angry that their rice was being shipped to the coast. He knew he shouldn’t have brought the Glock, but he had it just the same.

He’d left America to find work. In China, there were jobs, but since the glaciation had worsened several years ago, there wasn’t enough food. A week ago, he’d talked to his sister over the phone. She lived in Detroit. There was food in the U.S., she said, but after the Sovereign Debt Depression, there was seldom enough work.

Is it too much to ask for both? Henry thought to himself.

A burly militiaman blew a whistle, the normally piercing blast barely audible over the mass chanting. The militiaman stepped out of the line of guards, bringing a rifle-butt to his shoulder. The other militia stared at him, some with amazement. They were young men and clearly frightened by today’s events.

Henry craned his neck, looking to see what the commotion was about. Oh. A pimple-faced teenager shimmied up the bars. Reaching hands shoved him higher. The teenager moved carefully over the barbs, trying not to stick himself.

The aiming militiaman opened his mouth, letting the silver whistle drop to his chest. He shouted, or at least it looked like he did; the volume from the chanting horde drowned out his words. Regardless, his actions spoke loudly enough. Something must have made the militiaman pause. He glanced back at his companions. None of them had dared raise a rifle. The militiaman gestured angrily at them, berating his fellows. Was he the First Rank? He looked older than the rest, and the marks on his uniform were different.

A militiaman in the line shook his head at the First Rank. The others just looked at the older man.

Snarling, the First Rank took two steps toward the gate. He aimed his rifle at the teenager and fired. The sound was loud. Those nearest quit chanting and the teenager slumped onto the barbs. He twitched in death, snared on the iron fence.

While others shifted their cell phones, recording this, Henry found himself aiming his Glock. He squeezed off a shot. The banging retort hurt his ears. It made men around him flinch. The gun bucking in Henry’s hands shocked him.

The First Rank staggered backward as the bullet plowed through his stomach, blowing out cloth, flesh and intestines. The rifle fell as the First Rank hit the pavement, his head pointed away from the mob and toward the hidden semis.

The crowd went wild as it watched the hooked teenager. Men clutched the bars and madly rattled the fence. It groaned, leaning inward.

The remaining militia backed away from the enraged chanters. Then the militiaman on the left end of the line hurled his rifle away. Spinning around as his rifle bounced across the cement, the young man sprinted for the depths of the rice-processing plant. The panic was contagious as the example routed through sixteen numbed and frightened brains. Two other militiamen followed the deserter. That must have wilted whatever courage remained among the others. They rest turned to run, although several kept their weapons.

As the last militia disappeared around the nearest building, the crowd surged against the iron bars. The bars groaned and leaned farther inward. The front rank, including Henry, scrambled over bars, causing many of the poles to crash to the ground. Henry raced at the front of the horde, determined to grab several bags of rice.

The flight of the militia spread back through the mob like wildfire. It emboldened the horde, and the chanting increased in volume. Like a living beast, the mob surged forward.

Ten minutes later and at the rear of the mob, ninety Hanzhong policemen arrived. Jumping out of armored carriers, they drew batons and tasers. Blowing whistles, the police charged into the crowd, swinging batons and shocking people.

It should have worked. This was China, and the normally cowed populace had generations of obedience trained into them. Today it was different, because the mob had tasted victory. It was like a tiger drinking human blood. It liked the taste and wanted more. Perhaps as importantly, several of the dropped rifles made it into the rioters’ hands.

Shots rang out. Policemen fell to the pavement. Buoyed by success, young men in the mob picked up rocks, bottles—anything. They rained debris onto the surprised police as popping shots sounded. More baton-wielders fell dead. Young men howled and they charged en mass. They bowled over policemen and ripped away batons. The beatings began immediately, as did the merciless tasing of their former tormentors.

Some police made it back to the carriers. They climbed aboard, managing to fight off their attackers and drive for the nearest police headquarters. It was a massive building with two gleaming lion statues in front. There the police barricaded themselves behind heavy doors and the latest security systems.

Eighteen policemen died on the street. They were clubbed, tased until heart failure, or shot. It was a heady feeling for the rioting masses, and they wanted more, much more.

The police in the station radioed for outside help, and news of the trouble quickly reached the highest levels. As the police in the barricaded headquarters passed out rifles and took positions at the windows, a convoy of heavy trucks left the city of Guangyuan forty kilometers away. A different convoy roared from Baoji. Together, the two convoys raced three thousand riot police toward Hanzhong and its gigantic rice processing plant.

By now, the Hanzhong police were phoning one another, wondering what to do. They were frightened by the boldness of the rioters. They dreaded the looting and reached a quick consensus: to wait for reinforcements.

The first convoy reached Hanzhong at three twenty-four in the afternoon. The second arrived forty-three minutes later. A phone call from a raving police general in Baoji convinced the Hanzhong chief of police to begin riot suppression.

The Army cut city communication cables. Rushed electronic warfare (EW) units landed via helicopter and jammed satellite connections three hours later. Hanzhong was blacked out as the riot police, Army MPs, and revitalized Hanzhong police began to suppress looters, rioters, and subversives.

The police turned brutal then, wanting retribution. Nothing angered a master like a revolting slave. China was an ordered society, and the police gave the orders. The shooting began in earnest.

Then the higher powers began to arrive: The Dong Dianshan—East Lightning. They were the Party Security Service and landed at Hanzhong Airport at 7:19 PM. They wore brown uniforms with red straps running from the right shoulder to the red belt around their waist. An armband on their left arm showed a three-pronged lightning bolt. Each was a card-carrying member of the Socialist-Nationalist Party—what the former Communist Party had transformed into. Among their varied talents, East Lightning was practiced at rooting out ringleaders and enemy saboteurs.

By then, the police had imprisoned thousands, but had only interrogated a handful. East Lightning took over. Agents compared the video evidence, combing files from hundreds of webcams, looking for the perpetrators.

The next morning, around 10:15 AM—as Henry Wu cowered in his apartment—police smashed through his door with a four-man pulverizer.

Henry already lay on the floor, with his hands behind his head. “I’m innocent!” he shouted. He’d trashed the Glock early that morning.

A police officer kicked him in the side. Another shot a taser into his back, the prongs piercing Henry’s bathrobe and sticking in his flesh.

“You’re making a mistake!” Henry shouted.

The police shocked him into unconsciousness.

Henry awoke on the ride to Police Headquarters, Fifth District. He was handcuffed and sitting beside a large Korean officer in the back of a van. It was Chinese policy to use policemen of varying heritage. For instance, Han Chinese police worked in predominantly Manchu territory.

“Please,” Henry whispered. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

The Korean policeman pointed at the bags of looted rice found in Henry’s apartment.

“Is it a crime to eat enough to live?” Henry asked.

The Korean smirked, rolling his eyes.

After a bewildering set of twists and turns, the van entered the Fifth District Police Headquarters. When the vehicle came to a halt, the side door rolled open. Two Mongolians in brown uniforms with red belts entered the vehicle, causing the van to tilt their way.

Henry’s stomach curdled. “Please,” he whispered. Then his mouth became so dry that he could no longer speak.

The two East Lightning operatives hustled Henry through the cargo entrance and to a large elevator. Once inside the elevator, it went down to the basement. When the door slid open, Henry’s knees buckled, and he might have pitched onto the cement.

Fortunately or not, the two operatives each gripped Henry by his arms, marching him through the underground garage as his feet dragged. They entered a lit room with a bloodstained chair in the center. The chair had strange drill-like devices around it, much like a twentieth century dentist’s chair.

Henry twisted, trying to free himself. The left operative touched a stun rod to Henry’s neck. A numbing shock ended Henry’s resistance. They dumped him in the chair and tightened leather straps around his legs, arms, chest and one around his forehead, pinning him in place.

“I’m a loyal Party member,” Henry said.

A new operative appeared, a small man with large ears. He, too, wore the brown uniform with red belts and the armband with the three-pronged lightning bolt. He smiled, and his eyes seemed reptilian.

“You are Henry Wu,” the man said, checking a computer-slate.

“I am, but I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You shot a soldier yesterday,” the small officer said.

The words shocked Henry worse than the stun device. East Lightning knew everything. “No,” he said. “That was someone else. You have the wrong man.”

“We shall see,” said the operative. “In case you wish to confess immediately, I will now explain the procedure. First, we shall inject you with a sense enhancer.” The man took a body-sized apron from a hook and tied it so it protected the front of his uniform. Next, he produced a large hypodermic needle. A sludge-like yellow solution moved within.

Henry tried to twist free, but the straps held him immobile.

The officer dabbed Henry’s neck with a cold, wet swab.

“Please,” Henry wept. “I just wanted some rice. I was so hungry. I was tired of the ache in my stomach.”

“Ah,” said the officer, as he stabbed the needle into Henry’s neck. The man pressed the plunger, squeezing the solution into Henry.

“All right!” shouted Henry. Spit flew from his mouth as he said, “I shot the militiaman. He killed the teenager. I had to do something.”

“Excellent,” the officer said. “It is most healthy that you admit to the truth.” He reached up for a drill and lowered it toward Henry’s face as he sat down on a stool.

“What else do you want to know?” Henry asked, squirming to free himself.

“Many things,” the officer said. He tied a cloth over his mouth and nose, set aside his hat, and slipped on a doctor’s cap. He flipped a switch and the drill began to whine. “First, Henry Wu, do you work for the CIA?”

“What?” Henry asked, bewildered.

“Open your mouth,” the officer said coldly.

Instead of opening his mouth, Henry clamped his jaws shut.

The two Mongolian operatives moved to the chair. They used thick fingers, prying open Henry’s mouth. One inserted a bracer to keep his teeth apart. The other inserted a tongue suppressor, to keep it out of the way.

“You will talk to me, Henry Wu. You will tell me what I want to know.”

An hour and twenty-four minutes later, it was over. The small officer switched off his recording device. Then he used a cloth to wipe the bloody specks from his hands. “Dump the body in the incinerator. Then give me several minutes before you bring in the next patient.”

“Sir?” asked the larger Mongolian.

“Hmm, is that too imprecise for you?” asked the officer. He took off the mask and sipped from a water bottle. “Make it fifteen minutes. Afterward, bring in the next one.”

The two operatives unbuckled the straps holding down Henry Wu’s contorted corpse. Each grabbed a shoulders and hip, lifting the body out of the chair. They carried Henry Wu to the mobile Security Incinerator they had brought along for the task. It looked like it was going to be a long day before they were through. At least the position paid well, and they were able to eat enough to keep their normal weight. Not everyone could say that these days. Therefore, they went about their task with quiet resignation, looking forward to tonight’s meal.

Meanwhile, the small officer who had interrogated Henry sat in his chair. He stared into space and smoked a cigarette. For his brief fifteen minutes, he blanked his mind, trying not to think about anything.