Dispatches (5 page)

A bloodied flight officer stood in the opening, his gray helmet cracked down the middle. He wiped the blood from his face and glanced at Colonel Jin’s legs, which protruded into the aisle.

“Jin’s dead. What is the status of the aircraft?” said Xhua.

The pilot pulled him into the spacious cockpit, taking Xhua by surprise.

“One of the engines is down, but the aircraft is stable—for now. We’re running a diagnostics check on the main systems. What the hell happened?”

“I don’t know. We were tracking a target headed straight up. It reached sixty-eight thousand meters and vanished right before the system shut down.”

“Sixty-eight thousand? What was it, a missile?” asked the lead pilot.

“We don’t know, sir,” said Xhua.

“You don’t know?” replied the pilot. “I’m taking us back to base.”

“I need to get authorization from South Air Defense Command to end the mission,” said Xhua.

“The mission is over.”

“Negative, sir. We can’t come off station without their permission,” said Xhua.

The copilot interrupted the argument. “Both of you need to see this. Look toward the ground.”

Xhua pushed past the dazed flight officer and leaned between the pilot and copilot seats, craning his head to see through one of the side windows.

“I don’t see anything,” said Xhua.

“That’s the problem. The lights are out—everywhere,” said the copilot. “Consistent with the equipment fluctuations, I’d say we’ve been hit by an EMP.”

“I don’t see how,” said Xhua. “We would have been notified of an incoming ICBM.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m declaring an emergency and landing this aircraft,” said the pilot. “It’s only a matter of time before we have a catastrophic equipment failure.”

“Yes, sir. That’s probably…the best course of action,” he said, backing into the cabin, not sure what to do next.

The tactical situation over southern China had drastically changed, and not for the better.

Chapter 9

Sky View Tower

136
^th
Floor

Pudong District, Shanghai China

Huan Xiao swiped the air a few inches from the ample touchscreen of her Jianyu smartphone, activating the device. Responding instantaneously, the screen displayed a picture of her family posing in front of a tranquil, azure bay in the Maldives. Her boys, ages five and seven, grinned widely at the photographer. Her husband displayed a forced smile, his thoughts thousands of miles away at Jianyu Tower.

She stole a glance out of the two-story, floor-to-ceiling window, the centerpiece of their 9,200-square-foot residence, at the zenith of Shanghai’s tallest building. Across the Huangpu River, the warm, distant lights of the Bund waterfront beckoned over the cramped array of Technicolor towers jammed into Pudong. Jianyu Towers rose among them, displaying a dizzying array of brilliant colors that slowly shifted from dusk until dawn. Huan was thankful that she could still see the Bund. She was thankful for many things, mostly her two children, who were sound asleep.

Huan flicked her head a few centimeters left, clearing the screen with the nearly imperceptible movement, the device having already verified her identity through a subtle retinal scan. She had to admit, her husband’s company’s latest device was slick. Jianyu Industries didn’t invent gesture-guided screen technology, but they had nearly perfected it. With a little practice, the features performed flawlessly, freeing a hand to hold a cappuccino or shopping bag. Another technological marvel designed to enable an upwardly mobile lifestyle. At least that’s how they were selling it—or trying to sell it.

What should have been a breakthrough for Jianyu Industries, and the Chinese economy, had been hampered by another round of international trade setbacks. The launch was already three months behind schedule. The European release date, scheduled for early September, was inexplicably pushed back to November, followed by another delay in late November.

She suspected the problem stemmed from the brewing conflict with Taiwan. After the Americans withdrew their ships from the region, the Taiwanese government and military escalated their aggressive stance toward the Chinese. Rumors had spread through underground news agencies that Taiwanese Special Operations teams had been captured near Shantou, scouting the South Sea Fleet Naval Base. Whatever was happening, her husband knew more than he was willing to tell. He’d grown edgier by the week since the announcement of the November delay.

The scene beyond the reinforced, quadruple-paned windows vanished, leaving an impenetrable blackness—everywhere. Her phone’s screen cast the only light she could detect inside or outside of the residence. She stopped breathing, listening to the unfamiliar stillness around her. Something must have gone wrong with the auto-tinting windows. But why would the entire suite go dark?

“Wei?” she said, calling out to her husband.

He was on the second level, in his study, just beyond the balcony. A light illuminated the windowpanes of a double set of French doors above her. She heard them click open.

“Wei? Something is wrong with the windows,” she said, standing up in the darkness.

“It’s not the windows!” he barked. “I just lost power to everything. Not even my laptop works!”

“How is that possible?” she said.

“It’s not. The building has its own backup power system. The residence has its own backup system. This is bad news, Hu,” he said, using his phone’s built-in light to make his way to a spiral staircase.

Instead of heading toward her, Wei drifted to the center of the massive window. She stumbled across the marble floor to join him. Small lights flickered across the river, pinprick signs that the darkness wasn’t a mirage caused by the high-tech glass. Huan peered at the horizon, finding it devoid of Shanghai’s endless sea of lights.

“Nothing,” she said. “How could the power fail for the entire city?”

He took deep breaths, but didn’t answer her. Wei was acting way too calm, almost like he had expected this to happen.

“Wei, what’s happening?” she said.

“We need to pack up and get out of here,” he said, putting both of his hands on the glass.

“What are you talking about?” she said, grabbing his shoulder and spinning him to face her.

She held her phone in the other hand, with the screen facing up. The light washed over his face, exposing a frighteningly detached look. He swallowed hard before turning his head and staring blankly past the glass.

“It won’t be safe for the children in the city,” he muttered.

“Wei! You’re scaring me! Why won’t it be safe here?” she pleaded, her hands trembling.

“Twenty-two million people live here, half of them migrant labor from the interior. We don’t stand a chance,” he muttered.

“In a power outage? You’re not making sense,” she said, shaking him.

He looked at her with wild eyes.

“The power isn’t coming back on, Hu,” he said.

“Of course it is,” she said, cocking her head. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“The rumors were true,” said Wei.

“What rumors?” she demanded.

“Nobody thought they would retaliate,” he said, ignoring her.

“I’m taking the kids to my parents,” she said, walking away from him.

Whatever he was saying about the lights sounded like the ramblings of a madman on the verge of a breakdown. It wouldn’t surprise her given his odd behavior over the past few months. The delayed launch of their flagship product had obviously been too much for him to handle. She’d check into the hotel on the seventieth floor of the tower, just to put some distance between them until the city restored the power. She sensed his presence close behind and whirled to defend herself if necessary.

“Sorry, Hu. This is just…this is like a bad dream,” he said. “I don’t think we’ll be able to cross the river to get to your parents—and we need to be moving away from the populated areas.”

He sounded normal again, but she still didn’t understand what had him so spooked.

“I still don’t understand why we can’t stay,” she protested. “The tower has its own security. Its own grocery stores. We have everything we need right here.”

“Sky View is home to ten thousand residents. The stores will be emptied within minutes once people realize that the lights are out for good. Then they’ll turn their attention to us, at the top of the building. That’s how it works. The building will devour itself from within, and whatever’s left will be devoured by the millions of people living in the slums we created. Our only chance of survival is to get out of this building—immediately,” he said.

“We should just wait for the power to be restored,” she said. “It’s too dangerous to travel in a blackout.”

“Hu, my love, this isn’t a blackout. Can’t you see? Nothing is functioning here,” he said, gesturing around the deathly still residence. “The residence is on backup battery power, but nothing works.”

She stared at him, still not grasping what he was trying to say.

“This is a retaliatory EMP attack. It all makes sense now. The trade restrictions, bogus underground news reports, travel bans—they’ve been keeping us in the dark. Ha! Did you hear that? In the dark. Now we’re really in the dark,” he said, laughing.

He was starting to sound crazy again. Huan backed up slowly, bumping into an end table and knocking over a lamp. The room brightened momentarily, an orange fireball fading on the southwest horizon. They ran to the window together, pressing against the cold panel. Something big had exploded on the outskirts of Pudong. The metal chandelier above them rattled, followed by a vibration through the floor and glass. She recoiled from the glass, feeling completely exposed twenty-two hundred feet above the ground.

“I better wake the kids,” she said.

“I’ll take an inventory of our food and supplies. We won’t be able to carry much,” said Wei.

“What do we tell the kids?” said Huan.

“We’re going on a bike trip. That’s all,” he said, lowering his voice to finish. “A bike trip as far away from the city as possible.”

“The New Caliphate”

Chapter 10

Headquarters of the Home Office

London, United Kingdom

Michael Atlee tightened his royal blue tie and examined his thick brown hair in the full-length mirror in his private bathroom. Impeccable. He was scheduled to meet with the Prime Minister at 10 Downing Street in a half-hour—just a five-minute car ride away. Unfortunately, the security procedures required to transport him one bloody kilometer could last twenty minutes. He could walk there in less time, which wasn’t a bad idea. A little fresh air might do him some good.

Atlee still felt flush, his heart racing at the prospect of the sudden request for an audience. The mass emigration had finally drawn enough attention to warrant a cabinet meeting to discuss a strategy. He had his own opinion on the matter, but he’d wait to see what the “decision makers” had to say. So far, the Home Office had simply tracked and observed the growing trend, reporting the details to the Prime Minister’s office.

He opened the bathroom door and stepped inside his spacious, modernist office, hoping to review a few emails before his security detail arrived. A knock at the door stopped him before he reached the desk. He hated when they came for him early. A few minutes shaved off his day, here and there, landed him woefully behind schedule. Glancing at his watch, he sighed.

“Come in,” said Atlee, the door opening immediately. “I was just—”

Two men he instantly recognized stepped inside and closed the door. David Wilson, Deputy Prime Minister, and the Right Honorable Malcom Straw, Secretary of State for Foreign and Commonwealth Affairs, both senior Cabinet members like himself. Something was seriously amiss to draw two of the most powerful government figures in the United Kingdom out of their offices—unannounced.

“Gentlemen, please,” he said, gesturing to the Scandinavian-style furniture surrounding an art deco coffee table. “Shall I have Mary bring tea?”

Malcom Straw consulted his watch. “I would suggest something stronger, if it weren’t ten thirty in the morning.”

“Let’s not cross the possibility off the list,” said the Deputy Prime Minister, cocking an eyebrow. “Sorry to ambush you like this, Michael, but we thought it might be best to put some…distance between 10 Downing and our conversation.”

Atlee strode to the cherry-top bar cabinet behind the dark yellow leather couch.

“Sounds like we could all use a nip, if this conversation is headed where I suspect,” said Atlee.

The two well-dressed men agreed, sitting across from the couch on matching chairs.

“Ghastly furnishings, Atlee. What have they done here?” said Straw.

“Ghastly indeed. The entire building is an affront, if you ask me,” said Atlee.

“A far cry from Whitehall,” said Wilson.

“Neat, I presume?” said Atlee, removing three crystal tumblers.

“Sounds good. No need to get complicated,” replied Straw.

“Agreed,” said Wilson.

Atlee greeted the men with three glasses, each holding a generous, dark amber pour of a rare Highland Scotch. With tumblers in hand, they toasted the Queen and took liberal drinks.

“So, I’ve been given some direction regarding the startling rise in Muslim departures,” started the Deputy Prime Minister.

Atlee knew it. His report had stirred up a mess. He wasn’t surprised. Conservative estimates put the number of Muslim males departing the U.K. at more than five thousand per day—with the figure increasing steadily. The Mullahs’ call to form the New Caliphate resonated within the Muslim community here and on the Continent. The sudden withdrawal of United States military forces from the Arabian Gulf region tipped the balance of power in favor of the rising Caliphate. The last European units departed three weeks ago, scuttling their equipment in northern Iraq to prevent its use by the swiftly approaching militant army.

“This is guaranteed to stir up controversy,” said Atlee. “Not to mention the possibility of upsetting an already tenuous peace.”