Tiger's Claw: A Novel (33 page)

TEN

S
HANGHAI
, P
EOPLE’S
R
EPUBLIC OF
C
HINA

A
UTUMN
2015

The afternoon protest was just getting under way. For the past several weeks, idle dock workers at the Wangma Jiazhai piers in northeastern Shanghai would gather, organizers would whip them up by giving speeches with a bullhorn, then the angry crowd would march down Wuzhou Avenue to the Government Administration Building a few kilometers away to protest the continued high food prices, layoffs, inflation, and perceived government indifference to the precipitous economic collapse that was gripping China. Their numbers started out modest, just a few hundred, but now the protesters numbered in the thousands, large enough to block the Shanghai Ring Expressway during rush-hour traffic, which made everyone angrier still. The signs and banners that the protesters brought at first were still there but in much greater size and numbers, and more and more protesters were bringing tools, chains, and other implements from the docks.

The protests started two months earlier, following the news reports of the Chinese use of a nuclear depth charge in the South China Sea. At first every country involved denied it, but soon independent tests confirmed low levels of plutonium contamination in the sea. Even so, the public outcry was not as loud as might be expected: China said it reacted because of a perceived submarine attack on its carrier battle group, which Taiwan did not deny; the contamination levels were not very high and still dropping; minimal damage had been done to the seabed and nearby coral formations; and China had pledged to compensate all involved for the deaths and damage done.

However, the matter was far from over. Unseen by the public was the astronomic climb in insurance rates for cargo ships transiting the South China Sea, East China Sea, and Yellow Sea—any body of water in which a Chinese warship was patrolling or within range of a Chinese air base. It was simply too risky for most private companies to insure a vessel traveling anywhere near mainland China, and the companies that did write insurance policies charged hefty premiums. As a result the cost of everything, from clothing to electronics, nearly doubled overnight. Unsold goods started to pile up in warehouses and on piers. The Chinese government tried to subsidize workers’ salaries, but soon the layoffs began, and in a few months hundreds of millions throughout the entire country were unemployed. There was double-digit inflation, and not on a yearly basis, but a
monthly
one.

It was immediately apparent that this protest march by unemployed dockworkers was different. In all other marches the city police were on hand to protect stores and commuters, and there was rarely any violence, but this time the protesters noticed that the closer to the Government Administration Building they got, the more they saw soldiers and armored vehicles in the streets. By the time they were within two blocks of the administration building, the avenue was completely blocked by soldiers armed with automatic weapons. In the center of the avenue was a truck with a large rectangular panel atop it mounted on a pedestal that resembled a blank white billboard.

Over the protesters’ chants a voice over a loudspeaker said, “Attention, all protesters, attention, this is Major Li Dezhu, commander of the 117th People’s Armed Police Force from the Zhimalou barracks. You are hereby ordered by the Shanghai Municipality Office of Safety, the mayor of Shanghai, and the Ministry of Security to disperse and go home immediately. You can be assured that your grievances against the government have been heard and will be addressed by your government leaders. There is nothing that can be accomplished by your presence here, and these protests are disrupting the movement of your fellow citizens. Go home to your families immediately.”

“We are not leaving!” a protester with a bullhorn shouted back. “The monthly unemployment money we receive will not pay for even two weeks’ worth of food! Our landlords are threatening to turn us out into the street if we do not pay the rent!”

“No one will be rendered homeless during this financial emergency,” Li said. “The National People’s Congress is voting to appropriate more unemployment funds. All that can be done is being done! There is nothing you can do here at this time, and you are disrupting traffic! Now go home!”

“You tell us the same every day!” another protester shouted. “But no one in Beijing listens to us! Let us in to talk with the mayor and city council!”

“You have been warned!” the major said. “Disperse immediately and go home! The use of special crowd control systems has been authorized! Disperse immediately!”

“We are not leaving until the mayor speaks to us!” a protester shouted. “If he will not come out to talk with us, we will go in!” The mob started to surge forward.

Li brought a portable radio to his lips, keyed the microphone button, and spoke, “Level green,
jihuó.
”

At that moment the first one hundred protesters at the head of the mob stopped and began patting their arms and face, as if their skin was being pelted with windblown hot sand. The ones farther back in the crowd still marched forward, colliding with the stopped ones in the front, and then the ones moving forward had the same strange feeling on their bodies. But now confusion started to turn into panic as more and more of the mob was affected. People started to run in every direction, mindless of who they ran into. Despite the strange sensation, many of the mob still marched forward.

“Level yellow,” Li ordered.

Now the sensation of being hit by a sandstorm turned into the feeling of standing in front of an open furnace. Shouts of pain and fear quickly changed to screams of panic. Persons were no longer trying to brush away sand—they were trying to protect themselves from the searing heat, although they saw no fire and their skin did not seem to be damaged. Some tried to put out the fire they felt by throwing themselves on the ground and rolling. There was no tear gas, no sounds of bullets or shotguns, but people were falling to the ground as if shot. Finally the crowd stopped advancing, and they bolted left and right to get away from whatever they were being exposed to . . .

. . . and as they ran behind buildings or darted down adjacent streets, the feeling of being set afire disappeared.

“Get over here!” several of the protesters shouted to their comrades who were still writhing in pain out in the open, and as they ran for cover the pain stopped. “What is going on? What is happening?”

“I saw something like this on television,” another worker said. “I will bet it is that large sign in the middle of the street.”

“A sign? What does that have to do with anything?”

“It is not a sign—it is a microwave transmitter,” the other man said.

“A
microwave
? Are you joking?”

“Remember that major said something about ‘special crowd control systems’? I will bet that is what he was talking about. The police are using microwaves on us! The microwaves heat the fluids in our bodies without burning the skin.”

“How are we going to shut that thing down?”

“I think it is directional—I did not see any of the police standing beside it affected, and as soon as we ran behind this building the pain stopped,” the other said. “I think if we rush it from the sides it will not affect us, either.”

Using handheld radios and runners, the protesters quickly organized. While a large group remained on the avenue chanting and shouting as a diversion, two groups circled several blocks around on either side of the police guarding the microwave transmitter. As darkness began to fall, all at once they rushed the police from two sides. Within moments they had overwhelmed the police and torn down the microwave transmitter. Standing victorious over the subdued police, grabbing weapons, they turned toward the administration building . . .

. . . and at that moment machine guns mounted on armored vehicles on both sides of the avenue opened fire, mowing down protesters like a scythe cutting wheat. Several dozen protesters tried to rush the armored vehicles but were blasted apart long before they could reach them.

Z
HONGNANHAI
, B
EIJING
, P
EOPLE’S
R
EPUBLIC OF
C
HINA

T
HE NEXT MORNING

“I met with Acting President Gao and the chief of the Politburo late last night, in response to the rioting that took place last night in Shanghai and that has been erupting throughout our country over the past few months,” Colonel General Zu Kai said, reading from a script he held in front of him. He was broadcasting a radio and television message from the broadcasting center inside the central government building in Beijing. “Over three-dozen police were killed last night in Shanghai, and since the protests began last year there have been over a thousand police killed. The president and the Politburo chief want the violence to end, and they informed me that it was time to act to prevent any more senseless deaths by these criminal murderers.

“President Gao informed me that the office of the president, the National People’s Congress, and the Politburo agreed to be subordinated to the military on a temporary basis,” Zu went on. “Under our constitution, the military may from time to time be permitted to step forward in order to ensure peace and security, and that is what I have been ordered to do. Here is what I have been directed to put into place and enforce, with the use of our military forces, in all of the cities, provinces, and independent municipalities in China.

“A curfew has been put in place from dusk to dawn, and anyone violating it without an official work or transit permit will be arrested,” Zu continued. “Food rationing will begin immediately. Looters will be shot on sight, and food hoarders or anyone engaging in black market sale of food or medicine will be arrested. The military will assist local and provincial police forces in controlling crime and distributing commodities.”

Zu put the script down, removed his glasses, and looked directly into the camera. “I know this is a difficult time for our country, my fellow citizens,” he said. “China has not faced such a severe economic drawdown in a generation. The government is doing everything possible to reopen factories and regain full employment. Acting President Gao will address the government’s efforts shortly.

“But I wish to say that it is my duty to see to it that order is maintained while our economy and our way of life are restored, and I demand every citizen’s cooperation. Riots have torn our cities apart, and the violence must end. My military forces will work closely with local and provincial authorities to maintain order, but we need your help to see to it that the violence ends. If you see looters or black marketers, inform the police or a soldier. If you hear of a riot or protest being organized, tell us right away so that we may ensure peace. That is all.”

O
VER THE
P
ACIFIC
O
CEAN

A
FEW DAYS LATER

“Slipway doors are open,” Tom Hoffman said. He was in the pilot’s seat of a newly refurbished XB-1 Excalibur bomber, but he wasn’t flying the plane and had not done much flying at all on this trip, because Brad McLanahan insisted on doing most of it. But this was the first time Brad was going to try aerial refueling for real. He had done it from the right seat plenty of times in the dozen simulator sessions they had accomplished, and he got to watch Hoffman do the first real one just west of Hawaii, but now it was his turn.

They had a third crewmember along on this trip. Sondra Eddington was a few years older than Brad and was one of the first persons to go through Tom Hoffman’s accelerated flight training program at Warbirds Forever, except she had a bit more money saved up than Brad and could afford an apartment, a car, and attend the University of Nevada–Reno for her bachelor’s degree in business and a master’s in business adminstration instead of having to stay in a storeroom and work at the company.

After a corporate stint for a few years flying everything from Piper Cheyenne turboprops to Gulfstream bizjets, the tall, blond, blue-eyed pilot returned to Warbirds Forever by special invitation from Tom Hoffman to be part of the Excalibur project. She had already ferried several Excaliburs to Guam, but on this hop she was the relief pilot, spending most of her time in the bunk reading or napping and fixing the others cups of coffee or Ramen noodles. Now, in preparation for air refueling, she was strapped into the jump seat between the pilot and copilot, wearing her helmet plugged into oxygen and intercom, gloves, and a parachute. In an emergency, after the two pilots safely ejected, her task was to make her way aft to the entry hatch, blow the nose gear down, and jump—not an appealing prospect, especially if the jet was not straight and level, but her only option.

“Okay, remember your sight picture, Brad,” Hoffman said. “You’re on the right side, but it’ll look exactly the same from over there.”

“Yes, sir,” Brad said. He looked eminently confident and relaxed at the controls of the big jet.

“Masters One-Four, Cajun Two-One, how do you read your boom operator, sir?”

“Loud and clear,” Brad responded.

“Loud and clear up here, too. I have you in sight. Cleared to precontact position, Two-One is ready.”

“One-Four is cleared to precontact.” All the director lights on the belly of the KC-10 Extender aerial refueling tanker ahead of them flashed briefly, and then two green lights began flashing, verifying that he was cleared to precontact position. The tanker’s flying boom was already lowered and the nozzle extended slightly.

“Very smooth, gradual control inputs,” Hoffman coached Brad in a quiet voice. “You’ll find it much easier than the simulator. You don’t even have to move the stick. It’s like moving the planchette on an Ouija board—you just barely touch the stick and
think
about moving it, and it moves. No rush. Nail your airspeed, then make fine corrections. The Excalibur is very slippery, so you won’t need many throttle adjustments once you’re in sync with the tanker.”

The boom started to get larger as Brad crept up and forward. “Don’t focus on the nozzle, Brad,” Hoffman said. “Keep your scan going—director lights, nozzle, window bow, tanker belly. Keep scanning. You’re looking for that precontact picture: aft row of the director lights right at the top of the window bow, nozzle centered, director lights telling you to come on in, checking for closure rate or elevation warnings, then repeat. Nice and easy.”

Now Hoffman was starting to see Brad clenching and unclenching his hands and swallowing hard—the first sign of nervousness he’d seen Brad have past the first few simulator sessions. “Nice easy grip on the stick, Brad—don’t fight her. You got this. The B-1 is the easiest plane to air refuel but the slipway is in front of you, not behind as it is on most planes, and you tend to get the feeling that nozzle is coming right through the windscreen. The boomer won’t let that happen, believe me. Don’t focus on it. Relax. Scan.”

Brad forced himself to relax, and soon his hands were starting to make the tiny adjustments needed to form the sight picture he had practiced so many times in the simulator. Now he was making only quick glances at the approaching nozzle, and even though he knew this was for real and not a simulation, he got into the rhythm of forming the sight picture and using a quick and easy scan to . . .

. . . and before he knew it,
there it was
, the perfect picture of the landmarks on the tanker and the cockpit windscreen bow, and he heard, “Stabilize precontact, One-Four.”

“Roger, stabilized precontact,” Brad responded, pulling off just a tiny bit of power to stop the forward motion. Before he knew it he saw the boom come down a bit, the nozzle extended, and he heard and felt the satisfying
CLUNK!
as the nozzle extended and slammed home inside the receptable, without even touching the slipway.

“Contact, Two-One,” the boom operator said.

Hoffman checked his multifunction display. “Contact,” he reported.

“Contact, One-Four,” Brad replied.

“Taking fuel,” Hoffman reported. “We’re not going to take on much fuel, but just be aware that if we were taking on a normal onload you’d have to make very slight power changes as the gross weight increases.”

Now the director lights on the tanker’s belly had changed: Brad’s job was to keep the boom aligned with the yellow centerline and respond to the director lights, which would tell him if was too high or too low or too close or too far away. Brad found that the lighter his touch on the control stick, the easier it was to stay in the center of the refueling envelope.

They took on just a token amount of fuel—Hoffman had already accomplished the first refueling that would be sure to take them all the way to Guam, and Sondra had gotten a few practice contacts from the left seat as well—and then he had Brad do a few practice disconnects and reconnects, including contacts while in a turn, as if they were doing a refueling anchor pattern—a racetrack pattern designed to keep the aircraft in a particular geographic location—instead of a long straight refueling track. Just before Brad made it to precontact position on the fifth practice try, Hoffman keyed the microphone button and said, “
Breakaway, breakaway, breakaway
!” Brad immediately chopped the throttles to idle and started a brisk but not too rapid descent, while the tanker pilot gunned his throttles and started a fast climb and the boom operator yanked the refueling boom up and back to its maximum retracted position on the tanker’s tail.

“Thanks for the work, Two-One,” Hoffman radioed. “You had a newbie doing those contacts and the breakaway from the right seat.”

“Nice job, copilot,” the boomer radioed. “Catch you on the flip side, guys. Cajun Two-One is clear.”

“Great job on your first contact, Brad,” Hoffman said. “I think you’re going to have the Excalibur nailed.”

“Like you said, sir,” Brad said, “the lighter the touch on the stick and throttles, the easier it is.”

“Kinda seems like I’ve done this a few times before, eh, Brad?” Hoffman deadpanned. He patted the top of the instrument panel. “It may seem like the B-1 is a big muscular roaring monster, Brad, but she’s really more like a sweet intelligent woman: you be respectful and aware and don’t try to muscle her around, and she’ll respond just as sweetly. Try to push her around and she’ll bite back.” He turned over his right shoulder. “Sondra, I’m going to clear off for relief, grab a protein bar, and then I’m going to take a nap for a half hour. Sound good?”

“Yes, sir,” Sondra replied. She took off and stowed her parachute, folded up her jump seat, let Hoffman squeeze past, then pulled herself up into the pilot’s seat and strapped in. “Pilot’s up on intercom,” she reported. She put her hand on the control stick and gave it a quick shake. “I’ve got the aircraft.”

Brad shook his control stick and felt Sondra’s resistance on it, and he knew she had control. “You’ve got the airplane.”

“I’ve got it.” She disconnected the autopilot and made some gentle turns, getting the feel for the aircraft—Brad knew she almost never used the autopilot. “How’s it going, Brad?” she asked.

“Great, Sondra.”

“Sounded like you got a little nervous there during the first hookup, but you worked your way through it. Nice job.”

“Thanks.”

“I’m really impressed by how fast you’ve moved through the colonel’s flight training program,” Sondra said. “I thought I did it quick, but you blew me away.”

“I wasn’t doing a full load of credits at UNR while doing flight training,” Brad said.

“No, but I felt a little sorry for you—having to put up with the boss while you trained full-time,” Sondra said. “But you did good.” She paused for a few moments, then said, “So what’s next, Brad? You’re a multi- and instrument flight instructor and commercial pilot; you’re checked out in a few warbirds; and now you’re getting checked out in an XB-1 bomber. What else?”

He looked over at Sondra and gave her a smile. “To be honest, Sondra: I want to do what you’re doing,” he said. “My dad suggested this way back before I started the program, and now I’ve met someone who’s done it: commercial, CFI, CFI-I, and you have a degree in business and a master’s in aviation maintenance management. He said all that plus maybe an A and P license would make me competitive for working at Sky Masters, plus the fact that I’ve worked there and the bosses know me.”

“Pretty good advice,” Sondra said. “But to tell you the truth, I did all that stuff for one thing: to meet guys.”

“Say what?”

“To meet pilots.” Brad gave her a skeptical expression. “Pilots are hot. You probably don’t think so, but I do. All the pilots I’ve ever met know they have a skill that less than one percent of the people in the country possess. The jerk pilots have this cocky swaggering deal going on that turns me off, but the cool pilots keep the swaggering to a minimum, fly the plane, and complete the mission.” She looked over at him. “I haven’t figured out which you are yet,” she said, a slight smile just visible behind her microphone. “When you first arrived at Warbirds Forever, I thought you were the biggest jerk I’ve ever seen. You’re starting to come around.”

“Thank you . . . I think,” Brad said.

Sondra gave him a big smile. “That was a compliment,” she said. “So, tell me: What’s it like being General Patrick McLanahan’s son?”

Brad shrugged. “A mixed bag, I guess,” he said. “All I really know about my dad are the stories or opinions other people tell. He never talks about what he did in the Air Force. Every now and then I see him get this look, like he’s remembering something bad that happened a long time ago. He’ll hear a heavy jet fly nearby or see a warbird taxi out, and he’ll stop what he’s doing and get that faraway look. It’s not sadness or post-traumatic stress disorder or anything like that—at least I don’t
think
it is—but it happens, and I ask him later to talk about it, and he won’t.”

“I think your dad is quite hot,” Sondra said.

Brad’s head snapped around in surprise. “
What?
”

Sondra smiled, looking straight ahead. All the time they were talking, the Excalibur bomber didn’t wander one iota in altitude or heading—it was as if she had engaged the autopilot. “The strong silent type,” she said dreamily. “In a room full of pilots you’d never know he’d be the guy in charge . . . until it was time to get to work or until he spoke, and then you’d get it.”

“But he’s twice your age!” Brad exclaimed, probably too vociferously.

After a few long moments, she shrugged. “Not a complete disqualifier,” she said finally. She looked over and smiled at Brad’s shocked expression. “I see where you get it from.”

“Get what from?”

“You got the skills and the cocky attitude, Brad,” she said, “but you don’t show it—in fact, you work hard to hide it.” She gave him a smile, then added: “Not a complete disqualifier.”

“Disqualifier for what?” But she never answered him, only wore that slight little smile and steered the Excalibur as if it was on rails until Hoffman came up a half hour later and switched with Brad so he could take a break.

A few hours later they were painting the island of Guam on radar. “Guam Center, Masters One-Four,” Brad McLanahan radioed, back in the copilot’s seat but flying the Excalibur, “level at one-four thousand, forty miles east of BAGBE intersection, information Romeo for landing.”

“Masters One-Four, Guam Center, welcome,” the controller responded. “Descend and maintain eight thousand eight hundred, cleared for the GPS Zulu runway two-four left approach. Winds three-zero-zero at ten gusting to seventeen.”

After doing aerial refueling contacts, flying a GPS approach with the Excalibur seemed like child’s play to Brad. He used the same techniques as during air refueling: light touch on the stick and throttles, remain relaxed, and maintain the sight picture while keeping the needles centered and the airspeed under control. Hoffman made sure the checklists were done, and they rode the ILS beam nice and steady. The satisfying
SQUEAK! SQUEAK!
of the main landing gear touching the pavement was almost a surprise.

“Welcome to Guam, son,” Patrick McLanahan said as Brad, Tom Hoffman, and Sondra Eddington climbed down the Excalibur’s long entry ladder after parking the Excalibur outside of its tent. He gave Brad a big hug. “How was the flight?”