That was until just outside the small town of Dingxi a wiry, ill-fed horse collapsed while ploughing and died. The farmer walked to the town and asked for help to remove the carcass. He also needed another horse. He walked back to his farm and waited. A week later, the carcass was rotting on his only field. The corn crop was being destroyed. No official from the government had visited. The farmer returned to Dingxi. Outside the city hall was a banner of bright red Chinese characters, praising Chinese Socialism and Spiritual Civilization. The official who met the farmer didn't even offer him tea. Instead, the farmer was told that he was out of touch with developments in China. The official was from Beijing and in his late twenties. Although only a few years younger than the farmer, with his smooth features, fast way of speaking, and fashionable suit he was a generation apart. He explained to the farmer that there would be no new horse from the government. In modern China, everyone had to look after themselves. Only the fittest survived. Some people suffered, yes, but it was the only way to make China rich so that it could stand up to Western hegemony.
The farmer had heard of the changes. He could now sell his crop to whomever he wished. But he had never been told that the Party would not provide if he was in trouble. The farmer asked if the government would help him change his crop from corn to sorghum. He had heard that sorghum needed less water so he might be able to plough the field by hand. But he needed to be told how. He would even try soya beans to harvest as an oil crop, because that would need only three-quarters of the water he needed now. But the official didn't know what the farmer was talking about. `You can do what you like, but we can no longer subsidize you.'
On leaving the city hall, the farmer did an extraordinary thing. He acted not because of the loss of his horse, or even the prospect of having a spoiled crop that year. All those things were acceptable. They had been the fate of the peasant for centuries in China. And the peasant had always overcome the challenge to make the country great. He acted because the teachings of Mao Zedong were being betrayed. As he walked down the steps, he saw three government officials, laughing, like powerful men do when they are together. They got into a large black car and drove away so fast that a woman, carrying a baby on her back, lost her balance and fell over. The car didn't stop, but many of the hawkers left their stalls to help the woman. The farmer, who became quite famous after that day, remembered a passage from Mao Zedong's writings. Several hundred million peasants will rise like a mighty storm, like a hurricane, a force so swift and violent that no power, however great, will be able to hold it back. They will smash all the trammels that bind them and rush forward along the road to liberation. They will sweep all the imperialists, warlords, corrupt officials, local tyrants, and evil gentry to their graves.
As the car sped away the woman was helped to her feet, and the farmer let out a furious cry. He tore down the banner which stretched across the entrance of the municipal compound. He spread it on the ground and spat on it. Taken aback by his own audacity, he stood bewildered. But soon more and more people were showing their support for him. Some spat. Others trod. Some emptied jars of tea they were carrying over the cloth. Then three young men arrived on motorbikes. They picked up the now soiled and grubby banner, doused one end with diesel, and set it alight. A crowd gathered and watched. It didn't cheer. As the embers broke off and were blown away in the wind, the young men handed out leaflets.
They were written by the New Communist Party of China. They asked people to tick which category they believed they belonged to: the bourgeoisie; the semi-proletariat of peasants, craftsmen, hawkers, and shop assistants; the proletariat of farmers and unskilled labourers; and the lumpenproletariat or e´le´ments de´classe´s, the group which Mao Zedong had believed was one of the greatest problems faced by China: peasants who have lost their land, handicraftsmen who have lost all opportunity of employment as a result of oppression and exploitation… they lead the most precarious existence of any human being.
In Mao's time there had been twenty million. Today there were two hundred million. The farmer had just become one of them. That night, he didn't walk back to his house. After the burning of the banner, he found new friends who took him to a cafe and bought him beer. He explained the problem about his horse. He listened to the problems of others. Clearly, great injustices were being carried out throughout China. Later, about a hundred people returned to the municipal compound. They hurled rocks and smashed the windows. Then they broke in and ransacked the offices. They were about to set it alight when the People's Armed Police opened fire. Ten people were injured. Five died. The farmer was arrested and sentenced to fifteen years' hard labour. The young men who had given out the leaflets had left Dingxi long ago. They have secret organizations in many places, wrote Mao.
Damian Phillips, Chairman of First China Securities, was preparing the first of what would become regular reports for General Zhao. The result of trading on the International Petroleum Exchange (IPE) in London had been beyond his wildest expectations. The beauty of the IPE was that unlike the New York Mercantile Exchange there were no limits. Also, unlike the Americans, London asked no questions about the nationality of the investor; in New York the authorities want to know the identity of anyone who buys more than 20,000 oil futures contracts on the New York exchange. So on the eve of the war the previous Friday, First China had cornered 20 per cent of the futures market. The IPE's only concern was that First China topped up its margin every so often, which it did courtesy of the bottomless pockets of General Zhao and Multitechnologies. In his report to Zhao, which would be flown to Beijing by special air force jet, Phillips gave a precise accounting of profits to date. The $400 million from the first day of oil trading had been placed on the New York money market. That market was big, liquid, and anonymous. With the `flight to quality' that also happened it was an astute investment decision. None of the currency gains had yet been booked. The further the yen fell the better their position looked. Book profits on Monday of $181.95 million had grown to $261.6 million. He warned the General, however, of the need to act quickly if there was a major change in currency direction and requested approval to act at will if he saw an opportunity.
Jamie Song drove through the gates of Zhongnanhai. The driver was his own, but the bodyguard who had been assigned to him two weeks earlier was seconded from the Central Guards Regiment. His assignment was to protect the Foreign Minister's life and report back on his activities. Being spied upon was one of the burdens of high office in the Communist Party.
A soldier escorted the minister and bodyguard up the stairs past portraits of former Chinese leaders. The President of China was waiting for him in a suite of offices at the south end of the building, with him were the four other members of the Politburo Standing Committee. Song was not a member, but as the only Chinese minister who could talk like an American the leadership both needed him and mistrusted him. Song had been summoned to address the Standing Committee only on the issue of the United States. Clearly, the meeting had been going on for some time. After Song took his seat, President Wang made no immediate mention of Dragonstrike.