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.
-3-
Plans
Two old friends 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 just as competitive as they had been two decades ago.
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.