Invasion: Alaska (6 page)

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 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 so many of the poles crashed 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, tasing and swinging batons.

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 paving. 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 merciless tasing of their tormentors.

Some police made it back to the carriers. They climbed aboard, fought off their attackers and drove 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 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 loopholes, 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.

Many in Hanzhong had TVs and computers. Most blogged. China had become the richest nation on Earth by 2032, but those riches were spread unevenly. The vast majority of the new wealth generated these past twenty years had gone to the entrepreneurs and hard workers on the coast. Five hundred million coastal Chinese had tasted the good life, while one billion living inland faced continuing hard times. With worsening weather patterns, the inland dwellers faced famine. The worldwide cooling hurt agricultural production worse in some places than others. China had the unfortunate privilege of being among the hardest hit with lengthening cold snaps.

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.

City communication cables were cut. Rushed Army 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 shoot 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.

Then the higher powers began to arrive.
Dong Dianshan
—East Lightning. The East Lightning branch of the Party Security Service arrived at Hanzhong Airport at seven nineteen p.m. 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 lighting 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.

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

The next morning near ten fifteen a.m., 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 this morning.

A police officer booted him in the side. Another shot a taser into his back, the prongs piercing his 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, 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 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, much as a dentist once had done, 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 corpse 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.

-3-

Plans

ANCHORAGE, ALASKA

Two old friends in their early forties played ping-pong downstairs in a basement. They’d first met in college many years ago, both of them highly competitive at intramural sports. They had double-dated then and ended up marrying their girls. Both had stayed in Alaska where they had gone on many hunting and fishing trips together. They were like brothers, and even in their early forties, they were competitive.

Stan Higgins was a high school history teacher. He supplemented his sparse income as a captain in the Alaskan National Guard. His nickname was Professor, and he had read far too much military history for his own good.

Besides being a pastor, the second man, Bill Harris, was a sergeant in the local Militia. The Militia was a recent development due to limited Federal funding and the continuing shrinkage of the U.S. military. The Militia was voluntary, the men paying for their own weapons and uniforms. They mustered under their State’s control and had National Guard drill instruction every summer for those who wished for advanced training. Bill was one of those. The States with the largest Militias per capita were Texas, New Mexico, Arizona and Alaska. The three southern States had large Militias due to the proximity of the Mexican border. Alaska did because so many of the State’s population were hunters and fishermen.

Stan used his ping-pong paddle and bounced an orange ball up and down. Bill stood at the other end of the green table, waiting. The single bulb above the middle of the table flickered as the light dimmed. Brownouts were common these days and electrical grid repairs constant.

“Think the lights will stay on tonight?” Bill asked.

Stan grunted noncommittally. They had played four games of ping-pong already, tying at two wins each. Their wives talked upstairs as the children played board games.

“Just a minute,” Bill said. He moved to a shelf and checked his cell phone. “It’s getting late. Should we call it?”

The bulb stopped flickering then as the light strengthened.