The Foundation: Jack Emery 1 (11 page)

Peter read the document and went white. “Shit, looks like China has gone and made the rest of the day’s news irrelevant.”

“What do you mean?”

“That stranded carrier, they’ve sunk it.”

“When?”

“A few hours ago. We’ve got people aboard.”

Ernest’s head spun with the political and economic ramifications of the news, even before Peter had stopped talking. He was not prepared for his phone to ring, and even less prepared for who it was. He stared at the caller ID and willed the phone to stop ringing. He gestured for Peter to leave, and waited until he was alone before he finally answered.

“Took you long enough.” Michelle Dominique spoke before he’d had a chance to say hello. “The point of giving me your direct line was not making me wait.”

“Sorry, but I’ve just seen the news—with the world about to go to hell and all, what do a few extra seconds matter?”

“Whatever. I want it spun. Pro-Taiwanese independence. Moral outrage that our good boys and girls would get blown up like this. China evil. Taiwan good.”

Ernest sighed. Since their agreement, he’d ordered his editors to start slanting things in that direction. The
New York Standard
had a strong front-page feature about it, and other EMCorp papers and television affiliates had run it to death. He’d done all he could, within reason, short of an outright declaration of support for a preemptive US strike.

He resisted the urge to fight her on this. “So you want us to further stoke the flames of war. Are you sure that’s the best move at this point?”

“I don’t want your advice, Ernest. I want results.” There was a pause. “I also want criticism of the Kurzon administration’s handling of the crisis. You need to stoke public dissatisfaction and pave the way for my people to be elected in November.”

He heard a click and the phone went dead. He sighed and closed his eyes. He knew he’d better get used to it—getting calls from her like his editors were used to getting from him—but he still didn’t like it. For someone who’d run his own operation with an iron fist for decades, it was a culture shock he’d continued to struggle with.

For now, he had work to do. Ernest kept the phone in his hand and dialed the number of one of his best friends in the world. When the secretary of the President of the United States answered, he explained that he needed to speak with the President urgently and was put right through.

“How's the wife, Ernest?” President Phillip Kurzon offered in greeting.

‘Which one?”

It was their standard opening banter, but when friends got as old as the two of them, routine jokes could still bring a degree of comfort and amusement, even with a war breaking out. They’d been college roommates. Philip Kurzon had gone on to marry his sweetheart and lived happily with her since. Ernest had quite a different story.

“Ernest, that’s a nasty business with Sandra. Are you sure it can’t be salvaged?”

“I'm sure. The divorce will be finalized soon. As for the others, I haven't heard from Elle or Edith and Catherine is as unpredictable as ever. That’s all of them. How's yours?”

“The usual. Incredible woman, my wife. I think she has a harder job than I do. Grandson made quarterback, you know?”

“Pass on my congratulations.” Ernest paused. “Anyway, I do have some business to discuss with you, and I'm sure you're busy.”

‘Thanks, I know why you're calling. What’ve you got?”

“Not very much, just wanted to let you know we're running hard for Taiwan on this one. I know that puts you in a bind, but I really don't have a choice.”

While Ernest, a Republican supporter, and Kurzon, a Democratic president, disagreed on politics, it had never affected their friendship. No president reached the Oval Office without a patron in the media, and Ernest had thrown all of the support he could behind his first campaign. In return, he’d gained a powerful friend.

“I’m not surprised, but the last thing I need is more fuel on this particular fire.”

“They sunk a carrier, Phil.”

“And besides nuke them, what exactly would you have me do? The Joint Chiefs tell me I’ve got few conventional options with the
Washington
gone. I've got a meeting with Frank Maas in an hour, that'll tell me if the Agency has any ideas.”

Ernest massaged his temples with his fingers. “Is the military situation that bad?”

“Normally, no. But they sank one carrier, the next nearest are in the Gulf and somewhere near San Francisco, and anything I send from the East Coast will take far too long to get there. We’re going to war, but it’s with one hand tied behind our back.”

“Recognition for Taiwan?” Ernest pushed his luck.

The phone was silent for a few long moments. “It’s really a formality after they hit the carrier. State is already working it through. The Euros aren’t getting involved for now, but the Japanese, Koreans and Australians are howling. This is all off the record.”

“Of course.”

“Anyway, Ern, thanks for letting me know. Nice to know you’ll be calling on me to beat the drums of war as hard as I can. I've got work to do. Call my office next week and we'll organize a round next time you're in DC, it's been too long since we caught up.”

“You got it. Thanks, Phil. Bye.”

Ernest sighed. While the President knew war was now inevitable, he clearly hoped to keep the engagement limited. Yet Dominique was using EMCorp and its public influence to corner the President of the United States with public opinion.

Ernest, and his company, had become a strategic asset.

***

Jack felt very alone as he looked around the deck of the Chinese rescue boat, which he shared with a dozen or so armed soldiers and a large number of survivors. The sailors who’d been saved from drowning stared into the darkness or at the deck, and didn’t engage each other in conversation or protest their captivity.

Their captors, on the other hand, barked orders through translators and weren’t averse to using the butt of a rifle to make their point. They shared around bottled water and some meager food rations happily enough, but any dissent—real or imagined—was quickly dealt with.

Jack shivered. Though he had no injuries, he’d been unable to get warm since his plunge into the South China Sea, despite having three blankets draped over him. The dampness combined with the seasonal chill to make warmth impossible. He didn’t mind so much. At least he knew he was alive.

The Seahawk had plunged into the ocean seconds after the USS
Shiloh
had exploded. He’d had no time to react before the helicopter was upside down and completely submerged. It had been hard enough to get out of his seatbelt, let alone outside the chopper. If not for the gaping hole in the fuselage, he’d have drowned. Several others had.

Celeste had been alive when he’d lost her. He’d helped her to unbuckle and they’d both reached the surface, but in the confusion of fire and terror that followed, they’d lost each other. He thought she was alive, but it was equally possible that she’d drowned before the arrival of the Chinese rescue boats, a mix of naval and civilian ships that made for a strange flotilla. He’d been lucky to get aboard one of the first few.

Best he could tell, most or all of the carrier group’s warships were gone.

Besides the
Shiloh
, he’d been able to see one of the escorting destroyers crippled and continue to burn long after being abandoned. Beyond that, Jack had no idea what had happened to the rest of fleet, its escort submarine or the
Washington
air wing that had been aloft when their carrier started to go under. He hoped they’d had enough fuel to get to Taiwan or somewhere else.

He had been witness to the end of American naval dominance in the Pacific Ocean. Though the Chinese had no doubt taken significant losses as well, the result of their attack had been the loss of a ship thought impregnable and the death of sailors who’d paid the price for that hubris. No doubt the attack would have other ramifications as well.

Jack’s face suddenly stung, his reverie broken by the cold hand of a Chinese naval officer. The slap was firm but not brutal. The officer spoke to Jack in Mandarin, his tone professional. Jack relied on the English translator next to the officer to make sense of what was being said.

“My comrade said you should pay attention.” The translator’s tone was entirely civil. “You aren’t a navy man, so he wishes to know your name, occupation and role.”

Jack rubbed his cheek, trying to will away the pain of the slap. He shook his head. “I’m Jack Emery. I had no role aboard the ship. I’m a journalist for the
New York Standard
.”

He watched as the two men exchanged words. As they spoke, Jack looked around the small boat. This vessel had only a few dozen of the rescued, compared to the hundreds picked up by some of the larger ships. He looked back to the pair discussing his fate. As the translator spoke, the officer’s expression grew darker. Jack was fairly sure that the officer didn’t relish having foreign media on his vessel. Then, as if a dark cloud had lifted, the officer smiled at the translator and then at Jack. It didn’t feel like a happy one.

The translator spoke. “Are you sure that’s your answer?”

Jack stared at him. “Yes, of course. I need to get to Japan or the US. I also had a colleague on the helicopter that was shot down. She might be among the rescued.”

“That will take some time, I’m afraid. We believe you may be a spy. You’ll be under the guard of the People’s Liberation Army Navy until we can confirm or disprove this.”

Jack’s mind raced. While China didn’t have the most sterling human rights record, they were generally hands off with members of the foreign press. “That’s crazy.”

“That’s fact.”

“And suppose I jump overboard?”

The translator stiffened. “The troops on this vessel have orders to shoot if necessary.”

Jack’s shoulders slumped and he sighed. “So what next, then?”

The translator smiled. “There are procedures in place. I’m sure you understand.”

Jack didn’t, but he didn’t get any further chance to contest the point as the translator nodded, turned and walked away.

He ground his teeth, resigned to the fact that he was in the custody of the Chinese for however long they pleased. Whatever happened on the trip between the rescue site and the mainland, Jack knew that nothing good was waiting for him. He simply hoped that Celeste had survived.

In an attempt to get his mind off the pain that throbbed around his body with every beat of his heart, Jack thought of happier times with Erin. He’d expected his treatment at the hands of the Chinese to be rudimentary, but had never considered the possibility of the brutality he’d been subjected to. The darkness bothered him nearly as much as the odor that seemed to permeate every inch of the prison, a combination of sweat, human filth and the putrid, slightly sweet smell of charred flesh. The smell added to the continual, dull moan of human misery—a cacophony of wails, high and low. Occasionally, he heard a sharp cry of pain or terror.

It was all testimony to the work being done around the clock to extract information, real or imagined, from those unlucky enough to be here. He’d had a taste of such treatment on his first night, when a pair of uniformed men had visited and kicked him around. One of them had welcomed him in patchy English, before laughing at his attempt to cower away from the pain. They’d left Jack in darkness, and he’d been on the floor since. His only comfort was a metal pail for his bodily functions, which he suspected was more for the convenience of his jailers than their prisoner. Blood, piss and spittle could be hosed away, Jack figured, but shit would probably block the drains.

He dozed off. Some time later, he woke and gave an involuntary whimper as the lock on the steel cell door gave a loud click. The heavy door swung open on poorly oiled hinges. He looked up, and there was enough light in the passageway for him to see a small, bespectacled Chinese man with a toolbox in his hand.

Jack wasn’t sure what to expect. The man said something in Mandarin, and Jack was instantly blinded by harsh overhead lighting. He shielded his eyes against the pain of the first real light he’d seen in days, listening to the footsteps of the man as he entered the room and the screech of the door closing behind him. He was not sure how much time had passed between the first beating and now, but as Jack regained his sight, he saw it had been long enough for some of the blood he’d lost to dry in irregular streaks on the cell floor. The gruesome display wouldn’t be out of place in a gallery of modern art.

The new arrival dropped to his knees beside Jack and put his toolbox on the ground. He opened it and removed his tools. They were terrible instruments: some sharp, some blunt, some Jack had no idea about. But one message was loud and clear: this man could inflict pain. Jack backed into the corner, away from him.

The man spoke softly. “I’m here to hear your confession.”

Jack closed his eyes as he felt a tear streak down his cheek. “I have nothing for you.”

“Start with your name.”

“Jack Emery.”

“You’re a spy, posing as a journalist. You were on board the US Navy aircraft carrier that was inside Chinese territorial waters.”

Jack was slightly taken aback. He’d spent lots of time since his capture puzzled by his treatment. While China wasn’t usually averse to impinging on the rights of the international media, they usually kept the heat to a low simmer. He wasn’t sure why he was getting the special treatment, but suspected it was the pro-Taiwanese coverage.

He opened his eyes and stared at the man. “A spy? I’m a reporter. A pretty bloody famous one, too. Google me and you’ll work out that I’m no spy.”

The man laughed. “That’s one of the more fanciful stories I’ve heard.”

Jack felt his heartbeat quicken, and his mouth went dry. He had no doubts about what was in store should he remain here much longer. His heart pleaded with him to say something to the man, to convince him of the futility of what was to come, but his head knew it was pointless.

“Mr Emery, if you give me what I need, you’ll remained imprisoned here but otherwise unharmed for however long the conflict lasts. Once it’s over, you’ll be free to join your lady friend back in the United States.”

“Celeste? You have Celeste?”

“Of course. She’s another valued guest. Now, if you don’t give me what I need, things become more complicated. You’ll be deprived of sleep, comfort, food and any relief. You’ll also experience pain unimagined, until your very nerves are screaming at you.”

Jack closed his eyes. The beating he’d already taken would be nothing compared with any of that. He also felt a deeper fear, knowing they had Celeste. He’d thought she might be dead, which in many ways would be preferable to the Chinese hospitality. The man had clearly told him she was alive because she could be used against Jack.

“Close your eyes, Mr Emery, but don’t think that the darkness behind your eyelids protects you. You do have a real choice, but only one is correct.”

Jack felt hopeless. “Why are you doing this? All of this?”

The man laughed. “I’ll indulge you. My leaders have decided the time has come to reckon with Taiwan. Given that the American bulldog stands in the way, it was necessary to smack it on the nose with a newspaper.”

“You sank a carrier to send a message?” Jack shook his head. “Look, I don’t even care. You know I’m no spy. There’s no point in torturing me. I just want to go home.”

“I do know that the company you work for has become a strategic element in this war. If my government can’t control it, we can render it inert.” He shrugged “Just business.”

Jack’s heart sank. If he’d had hopes of being released, or at least having an easier time of it, they’d now vanished. Suddenly Josefa’s instructions to cover the conflict in favor of Taiwan made sense. For whatever reason, Ernest McDowell had cast his lot in the war. It meant Jack was in for a nasty time.

The other man slapped him lightly. “Now, I expect the same candor from you, Mr Emery. Concede that your coverage on board the American carrier was flawed. Admit that the ship was in Chinese territorial waters, and I will inform my superiors that they are mistaken about your espionage. It’s inevitable, so we may as well get it over with.”

Jack said nothing for several moments. He cowered in the corner as the other man waited for him to offer something to stay the threat of torture. Then, clearly tired of waiting, the man cocked a fist back. Jack tried to lift his arm to defend against the blow, but was too slow.

The fist slammed into his face. He wailed in pain as his nose gave a sickening crunch and the back of his head slammed into the blood-smeared concrete. He groaned but remained conscious, his head on fire. He continued to groan as the other man moved his head close enough that Jack could smell the cigarettes on his breath.

“I’ve seen some of the Falun Gong fanatics hold out until death, as well as some enemy spies, trained for such interrogation. But you’re a journalist. Why do you fight?”

Jack coughed several times, and spat blood onto the floor. “Because I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”

“Aren’t you afraid of me, Mr Emery?”

“I’ve been in the White House press corps.” Jack coughed again. “This is little league in comparison, and you’re the cheerleader that the entire offensive line is banging.”

The other man chuckled and then moved back on the floor slightly. Jack was pretty sure he’d caught the drift. Despite his bravado, Jack suddenly wished that he hadn’t insulted his captor. It would just mean more pain. As if on cue, he heard the scrape of metal against a whetstone.

“It is men like you who make my job a pleasure, Mr Emery. The ones who break immediately are no fun, they make my job feel like sweeping the floor. But every now and then, someone like you comes along, who gives me joy in my profession. You’ll break, though. Everyone does. Some just break quicker than others.”

***

Ernest mouthed his thanks as the waiter laid a napkin across his lap. He considered the wine list for only a moment before settling on a bottle of the 1997 Penfolds Grange. The waiter nodded, thanked the two of them and backed away, leaving Ernest and Peter alone. Ernest sighed.

“While we’re here there’s a thousand or so corpses floating in the South China Sea, boys in Chinese custody, and pilots risking their lives over hostile territory.”

Peter nodded. “Not to mention a country coming to terms with the destruction of American exceptionalism.”

“You don’t say.” They’d spent the morning digesting the blanket coverage of the war and putting a particular slant on things. Ernest didn’t tell him it was Dominique’s slant.

He reached for a bread roll from the basket in the middle of the table. He tore it open, taking out some of his pent-up anger on the unfortunate sourdough. In addition to all the other carnage, he had reporters missing. Ernest had lost people before—like any proprietor who’d been in the game long enough—but never this many.

“Any word from our people?”

Peter buttered his own roll. “It’s coming in slowly, but Fran O’Rourke from the
Independent
is still with what’s left of the fleet on their way back to Yokosuka. Christian Malley has been picked up by the Chinese, but there has been no word on Jack Emery, or the other
Standard
reporter, Celeste Adams. They were on board the
Washington
.”

“So they’re dead or captured.” Ernest assaulted the bread with a thick layer of butter.

“Yeah.” Peter’s voice trailed off. “Watch your cholesterol.”

“Not now, Peter.”

They sat in silence as the waiter returned with the wine and poured a glass for both of them. Ernest half expected a comment from Peter about watching his liver, but none came. In truth, Ernest was sure Peter felt as bad as he did about having so many people—EMCorp people—missing or dead.

Ernest picked up his glass and took a mouthful of the wine. It was as good as he remembered. He was about to have another when an Asian man approached the table from the side and came to a stop a respectful few feet away. Ernest sighed. This was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now.

“Ambassador.” Ernest turned to look at him.

The Chinese Ambassador to the United States, Du Xiaoming, gave a small cough. “Excuse me, gentlemen, I noticed you were dining and wanted to pay my respects.”

Peter stood and Ernest was glad that he took the cue.

“Just off to the gents. Please excuse me, Ambassador.”

Du nodded at Peter and took the newly occupied seat. Ernest said nothing as Peter walked away, but signaled the waiter to bring another glass. It gave him time to think. He’d had some minor dealings with the ambassador in the past, mainly about EMCorp expansion into China, and knew that this was a business meeting. Ernest just didn’t know the type of business they’d be discussing.

“What can I do for you, Ambassador?”

Du smiled again. “This is just a neighborly visit, as you Americans like to call it. A courtesy, since your dogs have strayed into our yard.”

Ernest felt his face flush, but any potential outburst was stayed when the waiter placed a glass in front of the ambassador and filled it.

“May I take your order, gentlemen?”

“Steak, James, just the usual.” Ernest gestured toward the ambassador. “And…”

Du kept his face even. “Two please.”

“Certainly.” The waiter took their menus then left them.

Ernest leaned forward to avoid any chance of prying ears. “You’re talking about the three embeds? You know they’re a part of the business.”

Du shrugged. “Your people, your risk. I’m afraid my government is seeing things quite a bit differently, though. All three are in custody and facing espionage charges.”

Ernest sat back in his chair, lifted his glass and took a sip of wine. He never took his eyes off Du, who sat impassively. Ernest knew he was now neck deep in negotiation for the lives and welfare of his staff.

He put the glass down and inched forward again. “They’re reporters, Ambassador. They were reporting events as they unfolded. They’re not spies. I want them released.”

Du held his gaze for a few moments, then nodded slightly. “Your company’s reporting of the developing situation concerns my government. Now they’ve trespassed, their return will require adjustments in their owner’s priorities.”

It took all of Ernest’s self-control not to scream in frustration. The deal with Dominique was to blame for this meeting, and for the fact that his people were probably being roughed up. He’d dug himself out of one hole only to land right in another. He had no doubt that the Chinese would release Emery, Adams and Malley tomorrow, for the right price. But it would be steep.

“Their reporting was fair and balanced. I don’t know what more you want.”

Du took a sip of wine. “That’s the thing about neighborly disputes, isn’t it? One side has a view, the other side has a view, but who knows who’s right?”

“Maybe. But sooner or later it must be resolved.”

“Yes, but unfortunately for you, we have your dogs. And their condition worsens with each passing day because of the grief they feel at not being at home with their owner.”

Ernest flared. “If you’ve hurt them, it will be on your head.”

Du held up a hand. “I haven’t harmed anyone. But dogs must be trained.”

There was a long pause. Neither of them spoke as they stared at each other across the table. Unfortunately for Ernest, the ambassador was right. It was EMCorp staff in danger, primarily because of his deal with Michelle Dominique. He had nothing to bargain with that he hadn’t already promised to her. He forced his temper to subside.