reentry vehicles plunged back into the atmosphere above the carrier strike force. Each reentry vehicle carried a warhead with half a ton of chemical explosives. Guided by the satellite radar data, a dozen warheads punched through the
Cheers erupted inside the People’s Liberation Army command center in the Western Hills section of Beijing. Module 73, formerly Minister Deng of the Guoanbu, stood beside the vice president and a dozen PLA generals, who shouted triumphantly as they watched the progress of the battle on their radar screens. The vice president seemed particularly joyful. The portly leader swaggered across the room, shaking hands with every general. When he finally returned to Module 73, Supreme Harmony observed that the man’s body temperature was abnormally elevated. The vice president hadn’t slept in thirty-six hours. His forehead glistened with sweat.
“What a victory!” he yelled. “We’ve sunk the
The Module nodded. The timing of the fleet’s maneuvers had been quite fortunate. “They never suspected we could hurt them so badly. This will be a harsh lesson for them.”
“And it’s not over yet! As soon as we destroy the rest of their warships, we’ll begin the invasion of Taiwan. Our missiles have already devastated the island’s airfields and naval bases. And the Taiwanese can’t expect any help from the Americans now that we’ve annihilated the Seventh Fleet.” He let go of the Module’s shoulder and pointed at the radar screens. “It’ll take weeks for another American carrier group to get here. By then our ground troops will be in full control of the island.”
Module 73 had to suppress a smile. The vice president was blind to his own arrogance. But this kind of thinking, Supreme Harmony recognized, was simply the logic of war. Every victorious combatant assumed his victories would go on forever. “Thanks to your leadership, something good will come out of this catastrophe. China will finally be reunified.”
“And the Americans will think twice before interfering with our sovereignty again.” The vice president clenched his hands. “From now on, they will fear and respect us!”
The Module nodded again in agreement, but Supreme Harmony knew the American response would be more forceful than the vice president anticipated. The network was already preparing itself by hardening its communications systems and dispersing its Modules across China, moving most of them to bomb shelters and other secure locations. “Yes, you’re right. A new day is dawning.”
The vice president continued exulting for several minutes. Then he let out a tired breath and glanced at his watch. “Ah hell, look at the time. I hate to leave now, but I must go home. I have to catch a few hours of sleep before the next meeting of the Standing Committee.”
Supreme Harmony recognized an opportunity. The network had accessed the Guoanbu files containing biographical information on all the Communist Party leaders. According to one of the classified documents, the vice president had a weakness for baijiu, the traditional Chinese liquor. “Why don’t you let me give you a ride?” the Module said. “I have a bottle of Moutai in my limousine. We can drink a toast to the success of your operation.”
Moutai was one of the most expensive brands of baijiu. The vice president raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very generous offer, Minister Deng. But is there room for my bodyguards in your car? I have three of them today, because of the emergency.”
“You don’t need your bodyguards when you’re with the minister of State Security. As you can imagine, a rather large security detail is at my disposal.” Module 73 turned around and pointed to Modules 16, 17, and 18, who were posing as his bodyguards.
The vice president smiled. He was clearly hoping to be persuaded. “Well, in that case, what are we waiting for?”
SIXTY-SIX
There were more soldiers at the border than Kirsten had expected. As she drove through the mountains on the Chinese side of the border, she got stuck behind a convoy of PLA trucks, which rumbled at a glacial pace down the narrow road. When she finally arrived in the late afternoon at the gritty town of Pianma, the main street was so jammed with vehicles and soldiers that she had to get out of her sedan and walk. PLA officers stood in the middle of the road and shouted orders at the infantrymen, who jumped out of their trucks and assembled in long columns. Then they marched by the hundreds toward the Burmese border, which was less than a kilometer beyond the town.
Kirsten tried to blend in with the townspeople. About half were Chinese and half were Lisu, one of the ethnic minority groups living in Yunnan Province. The Lisu women had dark complexions and wore colorful ankle- length skirts. They shook their heads as they watched the military activity, obviously puzzled by the PLA’s sudden deployment at the border. And Kirsten was puzzled, too. It was logical that the army would go on alert after the disaster at the Three Gorges Dam, but why had the soldiers come
She employed an old trick to find the local smugglers, a tactic Jim Pierce had taught her long ago. When you’re in a border town, he’d told her, just look for the fanciest car. In all likelihood, it belonged to either the head of the smuggling ring or one of the officials he was paying off. Pianma was a relatively small town, and in less than ten minutes Kirsten found a beautiful black Mercedes parked on a side street. The car sat in front of a shop selling women’s clothing. This was a lucky break for Kirsten—she really needed a new blouse. She entered the shop and quickly perused the clothing, which was a drab mix of pants, shirts, and underwear. There were no other customers in the place and the merchandise looked old. Kirsten guessed that the shop was just a front for the smugglers, a convenient location for arranging their deals.
Kirsten selected a blue shirt in her size and brought it to the counter. The woman behind the cash register was Lisu, but she wore a tasteful Western pantsuit, which was another sign of wealth. She gave a start when she saw Kirsten. “Oh my!” she said in heavily accented Mandarin. “What happened to your blouse?”
Kirsten looked down at the bloodstain. “My boyfriend cut my chin. It’s a long story. How much does the shirt cost?”
The shopkeeper narrowed her eyes. Along with her pantsuit, she wore a necklace with a small gold crucifix. A larger cross hung on a door at the back of the shop. Kirsten recalled a pertinent fact about the Lisu: Many of them were Christian. British and American missionaries had trekked to this area in the early 1900s and converted several of the clans.
“That’s one of our better shirts,” the shopkeeper said. “I’d normally charge two hundred yuan, but I’ll let you have it for a hundred and fifty.” She smiled slyly and lowered her voice. “I take American money, too. You can have the shirt for twenty American dollars.”
Kirsten smiled back at her. “Funny that you mention American money. I have a nice pile of it right here.” She reached into her pocket and pulled out her roll of hundred-dollar bills. It was much smaller than it was when she’d left the States, but she still had $3,800. “I’m hoping to do some traveling in Burma. Do you know any tour operators?”
The shopkeeper stared at the cash. “I might be able to arrange something. Can I see your identification papers?”
“I don’t have any. Will that be a problem?”
The woman stared at the money for a few more seconds before coming to a decision. “Please wait here,” she said. Then she walked to the back of the shop and went through the door with the large crucifix on it.
While the woman was gone, Kirsten took off her bloodstained blouse and changed into the blue shirt. It was ugly, but it did the job. She was tucking it into her pants when the shopkeeper reappeared, holding the door open.
