Heaven's War (11 page)

Zack looked at Harley, who smirked and said, “That boy sounds like a dang Communist to me.”

Weldon shrugged. “No surprise there, given where he worked….”

The young man was charging toward Bynum. “Then why don’t you give back the gun?” Zack realized that he was American; surely his accent suggested Louisiana. Before he reached the White House man, the younger one turned and said to the crowd, “He didn’t tell you that, did he? How many of you have guns?”

There was a long moment. Bynum smiled and slowly reached behind him…drawing a shiny Colt pistol from his waistband.

“He’s right. I have a gun. I found it, just like Xavier here found his backpack filled with goodies. Does that give me authority? Does this gun make me more right? On Earth it did. Is that how we’re going to live here? Is that how we’re going to present ourselves to the beings that made this place, that brought us here? How is that working for us so far?”

Bynum was talking about nonviolence, but to Zack he looked crazy, on the edge of something terrible. If nothing else, he looked like a man who really wasn’t familiar with weapons, the way he kept waving the Colt around.

Zack stepped back, wanting to put himself between Bynum and Rachel. As he moved, his peripheral vision picked up a man moving parallel, but the opposite direction…toward the front of the crowd. Zack took a closer look, saw that the man was Asian, short, chubby—

“Daddy!” Rachel said.

Zack turned at her voice and saw the muzzle of Bynum’s pistol aimed directly at him.

Before he could react, behind him there was a pop, then a second.

Brent Bynum was standing with his arms stretched out, like Christ on the cross. He sank to his knees.

The Asian man moved out from behind Zack. He had shot Bynum.

Suddenly many people were yelling, and three or four started pointing and fighting.

“Get him!” Weldon was shouting.

Within seconds the Asian man had been gang-wrestled. Dale Scott took the gun away from him.

But it was too late for Brent Bynum. He bled out and was dead within ten minutes.

Zhao had not wanted to shoot the American. In fact, he had not wanted to hold a gun in his hand; he had spent far too much time on shooting ranges performing urban assaults and mock assassinations to feel relaxed when armed.

And, in spite of his colorful background and training, he had never killed a man. Never shot
at
one. Had he been given time to reflect, he would surely have wondered if his training had made the shooting too automatic, too easy. Fortunately, there had been no time to think back—

When he picked up a weapon, he intended to use it.

And he had picked up this weapon, a 9-mm Glock 39, from the debris floating inside the Bangalore Object. He recognized it as the type worn by the Black Cats, the Indian National Security Guards at Bangalore Control.

He had not seen a Black Cat, though he had come across the bruised, blood-clotted lower half of a human body clad in the same gray trousers worn by members of that organization.

For two days he had held on to the Glock, an easy thing to do in spite of the horrific circumstances. He was the only Asian among the Bangalore refugees, and while he knew a good many of the survivors, including Nayar and Pillay, he had actually been introduced to only a few. He had been left alone to contemplate the unlikely events that had put him in this place.

The gun? After the Houston and Bangalore groups merged, Zhao had quickly separated himself from his former Indian colleagues and begun walking with the Texans. His English was better than his Hindi would ever be, for one thing. For another, it appeared that the Texans were carrying a wider variety of items that might be useful for survival.

Among those items…a shotgun and at least one handgun.

Zhao was familiar with weapons, of course. Soon after he had been recruited by the Chinese intelligence service Guoanbu from a factory in Foshan (where he had been caught in some amateurish hacking—trying to access nude photos, of all the obvious activities), he had been trained to shoot. He expected to work in the agency’s First Bureau as a glorified border guard, with hopes of becoming a police officer hounding corrupt businessmen.

For a brief period, his physical fitness earned him training in special operations. He became a marksman; he learned to swim and scuba dive; he even qualified as a parachutist.

But his intelligence and aptitude scores—and hacking background—quickly put him on a different track with the Tenth Bureau, which specialized in science and technology.

The Tenth Bureau had sent him to CUC, the Communications University of China.

Maybe it was the memory of those seven-day workweeks, or the smell of plastic being poured into molds for toys that would eventually amuse children in the United States; whatever the motivation, Zhao had finished at the top of his class, even though he had collateral studies at Guoanbu’s Intelligence School. It wasn’t as though he studied every waking hour—but he made sure he knew his facts before giving answers, unlike many of his fellow students, party princes who were getting a communications degree before going into the business world.

Or maybe it was the fact that of all the male students Zhao knew, he was the only one with a sibling—his older brother, Chongfu, who had been content to do only what was asked of him…and who had grown fat and lazy and unhappy as the permanent deputy manager of a shipping firm in Foshan.

Still. Bangalore. August.

Zhao hadn’t wanted the assignment to India at any season. Not that his bosses in the Tenth Bureau were in the habit of allowing bids on stations; no one outside the upper reaches of the agency had any notion of where the next cadres would be deployed.

But during his tour at headquarters brushing up his technical skills,
Zhao had spoken openly about his fascination with “colder places”—the Scandinavian countries, especially. He mentioned Scotland. He talked of a lifelong dream of visiting Patagonia.

Major Xin, one of his instructors, heard him and, smiling, said, “Careful. You’ll wind up at the South Pole.”

China had three small stations in Antarctica. Zhao would have been happier at any one of them than he was in Bangalore, trying to be not only the world’s expert on China’s relay satellite system—which was being “lent” to ISRO in exchange for access to propulsion technology—but also to cultivate sources all through Bangalore Control Center, against the day when the China National Space Agency would make its own Great Leap Forward beyond Earth orbit.

He had learned enough Hindi to be functional in an engineering situation but was nowhere near fluent enough to be sociable.

He had tried to combat the heat, the humidity, the smells, the bugs, the culture by keeping to himself, in the dark, in air-conditioned buildings.

It wasn’t that he especially hated India or Indians; he just loathed tropical climates. His native Guangdong had been bad enough.

It was this…well, now he had to label it a weakness, that had allowed him to be scooped up by the Bangalore Object. He had traded shifts with his partner, Lu, in order to avoid travel during the heat of the August day, or he would have been safe in a distant hotel instead of here, inside some kind of alien vessel, his hands bound behind him, squatting on the dirt, surrounded by angry men and women.

Accused of murder.
And on display, like a zoo creature, with haggard men, some women, and even a few children pushing for a view. There were shouts, though little that struck Zhao as understandable.

All things considered—and those things included the undeniable fact that he might have acted in haste—Zhao felt serene. Even his posture, back pressed against a rugged stonelike wall, butt on the dirt, legs extended, was easily endured.

Agents of the Guoanbu, China’s national intelligence agency, were put through worse physical tortures during their first months as candidates.

“What’s your name?” Weldon asked him.

“Zhao Buoming. I was born in Foshan, Guangdong Province, in 1988 and educated at the University of California School of Engineering,” he said. “To save you a few questions.”

Gabriel Jones returned at that moment. With him was a man in a wheelchair—Harley Drake, Zhao realized, the crippled former astronaut. Both men looked grim and, catching the eyes of their fellows, confirmed what Zhao already knew.

He had not only shot the man, he had killed him.

“Why did you do it?”

His questioner was Shane Weldon, a rangy, gray-haired man whose looks suggested he might be happier as a rancher, an image that was even more apt given the way he cradled the Glock he had taken from Zhao. Not that Weldon’s career had taken him anywhere near ranching—Zhao knew that he was a former U.S. Army helicopter pilot and engineer who had lately served as the
Destiny
mission director in Houston, Vikram Nayar’s NASA counterpart. Labeling him “rancher,” however, was one of the many mnemonic tricks Zhao used in his work.

“I believed he was going to shoot Stewart or someone else.”

“You couldn’t have shouted?” Zack Stewart said.

Zhao turned to look directly into Stewart’s face. “He was waving the gun. If I’d shouted, you’d very likely be dead.”

Vikram Nayar and a pair of Bangalores arrived, looking aged and wary. Nayar did not speak but stared at Zhao, as if trying to place him.

“What’s your background, Mr. Zhao?” Weldon said.

“I’m an engineer with China National Space.”

“American leaders are lawyers; Chinese leaders are engineers,” Weldon said. This was a quip Zhao had come to loathe, as much for its persistence as for its inaccuracy. He chose to ignore it, nodding instead toward Nayar and his associates. “You probably know that we leased our tracking network to the
Brahma
mission.”

“Yes,” Gabriel Jones said. “Complete with state-of-the-art encryption.”

Zhao had no fear of the former Johnson Space Center director. “I wasn’t aware that all of NASA’s links were open to the world.”

Weldon laughed. “He’s got you there, Gabriel.”

Now Nayar spoke. “Where did you get the gun?”

“It was in the debris that traveled with us.”

“Ah, so you just
happened
to find it.” Nayar was clearly skeptical, but Zhao expected that.

“Yes,” he said. “I don’t go around armed.”

Weldon held up the Glock. “But you are a pretty good shot.”

“He’s been well trained,” Nayar said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Stewart said.

Nayar waved a contemptuous hand toward Zhao. “He’s a
Chinese spy
. All of them were.”

“All of whom?” Weldon said.

“All the Chinese sent to support
Brahma
.”

Weldon turned to Zhao. “Is that true, Mr. Zhao?”

Zhao knew that whatever he said would be suspect. His training, however, required him to stick to his cover story—which had the supreme advantage of any good lie: It happened to be true. “I’m a network specialist and deputy program manager with China National Space. I can bore you to death talking about ITU allocations and super hydrophobic Lotus effect coatings, if you’d like.”

“You didn’t say no,” Stewart said.

Before leaving Beijing, Zhao had been given a briefing on the
Brahma
and
Destiny
crews.
Brahma
was no longer relevant, of course, and neither were three of the four American
Destiny
astronauts.

But here was Zack Stewart.
“Intellectually brilliant,”
the Guoanbu analyst had written.
“Possesses a rare talent for social adaptability, which allowed him to make a successful transition from an academic scientific career to the operational NASA universe.

“His flaw is hesitation. He will weigh all options five times before acting.”

Zhao had recalled those words when watching Stewart reacting to Bynum’s performance. A man who was prone to quick action would have put a stop to that long before Zhao was forced to act.

And now the American was focusing on Zhao. “You’re a man of the world, Dr. Stewart. Whenever NASA engineers visit another country, they’re debriefed. It’s the same in China.”

Weldon stood up. “You
still
didn’t say no.”

“What difference does it make?” Nayar snapped. “China, India, the U.S., who cares now? We are two groups that need to be one.”

Gabriel Jones intoned, “He still murdered a man.”

Zhao stirred at this. “I
killed
a man who was a serious threat.” Now, to use time-honored techniques from his years of training, he went on the offensive. “And what, in all seriousness, are the options here?” He nodded at Weldon, still cradling the Glock. “There are at least four rounds left in the magazine. But you aren’t going to execute me.”