The rich here maintained private zoos and botanical gardens of gargantuan size. The Leader’s polar bears had been pictured in several documentaries, and he had often shown his favor by gifting a lucky official a prime polar bear cub. No longer did masses of pedestrians clog Beijing’s sidewalks, nor did bicycles clutter the streets as in many foreign cities. Mexico City had seemed like an overturned ant colony with its tens of thousands of bicyclists. Everyone in Beijing went by car at least, if only in a taxi.
The helicopter’s intercom crackled. “Sir,” the pilot said. “In case you were wondering, those are two Air Force jets pacing us.”
Nung stared out of the window. He spied a J-25 air superiority fighter. Sunlight winked off the craft’s canopy.
The pilot banked the helicopter. They were headed for the Leader’s summer palace outside the city. Nung closed his eyes, willing his seething stomach to settle down. The next few hours… they might well decide the fate of the world for many years to come.
Twenty minutes later, the helicopter banked once more and lurched, going down toward a landing pad in a vast garden of gingko trees. Nearby, there stood a huge palace dominating a luxurious villa. Grecian marble and Californian redwoods predominated as building material. There were gold inlaid fountains, a pagoda and even a large bronze Buddha with half-lidded eyes.
Armored cars ringed the landing pad. Each car bore a lion head on the hood and on the sides. Those belonged to the Leader’s Lion Guard, his personal security apparatus.
Without looking at the Army security team in the helicopter with him, Nung said, “Maintain decorum throughout the proceedings and on no account will you take offense at anything said.”
His chief of security, a large man with sloping shoulders, turned a stern face toward him, nodding once. The man never wasted words and Nung appreciated that.
A last lurch told him the helicopter had landed. Together, Nung and his security detail strode down the helicopter’s carpeted walkway.
Now it begins. Now I enter the political world with its thousands of murky undercurrents.
First divesting his security personnel of weapons, Lion Guardsmen hustled them to waiting cars. The Leader’s mania against assassins real and imagined was well known among those in power.
The chief Lion Guardsman, a hulking specimen, stepped up, blocking the sunlight. He bowed before Nung, although there was nothing conciliatory about it. “I must frisk you, sir,” the giant said in a deep voice.
Nung froze for an instant. This was a grave indignity for a man of his rank. He resisted the impulse to turn to his security chief—the man wasn’t there, but going away toward a confinement cell. For the first time in years, Nung had no security. It was a strange feeling, as if he’d left his fly open or forgotten to put on his tie.
“There is no need to touch me,” Nung said gruffly, handing the man his service pistol.
“I’m afraid there is, sir.” The Lion Guardsman had hard, pitiless eyes.
He’s enjoying this.
“If you would lift your arms…”
Nung complied, enduring the shame of a pat down. The man groped everywhere, running his fingers down and under his buttocks. This was an insult, and it almost broke Nung’s resolve. He clenched his teeth, telling himself the rumors must be true then that the latest assassination attempt against Jian Hong had come within centimeters of success.
Once finished with the frisk, the Lion Guardsman looked down at him, smiling faintly before motioning to an armored car. It was a short drive to the palace. Soon, Nung marched down corridors and climbed what seemed like endless flights of stairs.
The hulking Lion Guardsman snapped his fingers. The four flanking Nung turned, and soon they entered a new corridor with portraits of the Leader and the old Chairman in their earlier days. The corridor led to maple double doors with golden handles. The chief guardsman took out a whistle and blew a shrill blast. He yanked open both doors to reveal a cavernous chamber with giant chandeliers and an enormous conference table among other grand furniture.
The chief guardsman shouted in a loud voice, “Marshal Shin Nung of the First Front!” The guardsman stepped back and the four soldiers ground their rifle butts onto the corridor’s marble floor.
Nung raised his eyebrows as he peered into the chamber. The Leader—Jian Hong—sat at the farthest end of the conference table. He was a medium-sized man with dark hair, darker eyes and wearing a black suit of the finest silk. The Leader motioned him within.
Once more, Nung complied and the doors shut behind him.
The five other members of the Ruling Committee already attended the Leader, sitting along the table’s sides. There was Deng Fong the Foreign Minister, in his early eighties but with the smooth skin of a baby. He had received skin-tucks, but laser surgery could do nothing for his weak left eye, which had closed and marred his otherwise “youthful” features. The other four members held varying posts, although Nung knew each by the man’s main occupation. There was the Police Minister, the Army Chief of Staff, the Navy Minister and the Agricultural Minister.
The Leader had attained the highest office, Nung knew, but he did not yet wield supreme power as the old Chairman once had. Deng resisted the Leader and was still too powerful to simply oust or assassinate without serious repercussions. The Navy and Agricultural Ministers often sided with Deng. Perhaps as important, many of China’s subject states and allies trusted Deng’s good judgment. The Japanese particularly liked him, which meant the Koreans hated the Foreign Minister. The Koreans had never forgotten how arrogantly the Japanese had ruled over them before and during World War II. The most powerful Southeast Asian allies took their cue from Deng and might well leave the Pan Asian Alliance if he simply dropped from sight. The same could be said for the German Dominion Chancellor.
“We have been waiting for you,” the Leader said.
Nung nodded respectfully.
“You will sit there,” the Leader said, pointing at a chair farthest from him.
Nung marched to the chair, noting his place had a computer scroll. As he sat, Nung greeted the Army Chief of Staff, an old foe named Marshal Kao: his tall shoulders were bowed with age. Kao hardly acknowledged him, turning away to tap the screen of his own computer scroll.
“We have been waiting for you, Marshal Nung,” the Leader repeated. “We have a momentous decision to make, an ominous choice with worldwide repercussions.” He scanned the others, a frown changing his features, making him seem sterner than Nung remembered.
Jian Hong had always been known as a clever man, a keen intriguer and quick-witted in speech. Over seven years ago, he had been Deng Fong’s protégée, a “young” climber in the Socialist-Nationalist Party. Back then, Jian had accepted the post of Agricultural Minister and failed to meet harvest quotas due to increasing glaciation. Then he had backed the Alaskan attack and through it had gained fame, most of it by Nung’s actions on the Arctic ice. Nung had never challenged the official story, as it gave him a powerful patron on the Ruling Committee. Despite the Army Chief of Staff’s hatred, Nung had risen high these past seven years. If he succeeded in his coming tasks…there was no telling how high he could reach, perhaps even to the Ruling Committee itself. The past seven years had shown him that nothing was impossible.