Authors: J. Robert Kennedy
Other
more reliable vehicles were able to mostly scramble out of the way either by
heading headlong into the sidewalks, or by reversing direction and jumping the
boulevard to the other side. Some even tried to bail into the square itself.
Her eyes
were focused on the civilian chaos, but when she noticed the closest column
turning to flank the square, alongside where their pursuit tank had already
taken up position, she caught a glimpse of something that made no sense.
“Those
tanks!” she began, but stopped. At first she could have sworn she saw the blue
of the Qing dragon on the bright gold flags flying proudly from the rear of the
tanks, but she couldn’t spot it again.
Your mind is playing tricks on you.
She flashed back to the Qing flag she saw in the room of the mobile HQ, and it was
clear to her what these flags represented.
Dawson
looked at her. “What?”
“That
gold flag they’re flying. It’s exactly like the flag I saw at the headquarters
when we were escaping, except for the blue dragon.”
“What
are you talking about, Professor?”
“Sergeant Major,
they’re essentially flying the flag of the Qing Dynasty,” she said as she looked
back at the column, the flag fluttering on the back of each of the tanks as
they approached. “I think you’re right, Sergeant Major. We’re in the middle of a
coup!”
Bo Yang’s Mobile Headquarters, Beijing, China
“Everything is going according to plan, sir.”
Bo
looked up from the screens displaying active updates of his troop placements in
over a dozen cities across China. His heart hammered in anticipation of the
upcoming days as he consolidated power, and returned his family to its rightful
place on the throne of China. Chairman Bo. Emperor Bo. It mattered not. What
flag flew behind him, mattered not. All that mattered was China.
And
China would embrace his leadership, he was certain of it. He intended to be a
firm but caring leader, to let the private sector he had embraced himself,
thrive under his watchful eye, and to become the cult of personality so
necessary in today’s modern world. He would embrace the young through Twitter
and Facebook, or at least their Chinese equivalents. One day he hoped that he
wouldn’t have to continue the policy of a filtered Google, or IP addresses
blocked due to hosting information critical of the regime.
Because
he knew, in time, there would be nothing to be critical of.
After
consolidating power, he planned to bring an end to the killings, the
imprisonments, the disappearances. Chinese emperors were once loved by their
subjects, and he intended it to happen again. Not a love through fear, but a
love like that in the United Kingdom, where the populace adored their Royals.
His own son, currently being educated in the United States, would return home
and marry a commoner, China’s very own Will and Kate.
But
unlike England, China’s new monarch would remain in control.
He let
out a slow breath through his nose, his focus returning to the General.
“And our
escapees?”
“We
believe they are pinned down in Tiananmen Square. Our ground forces are moving
in now, and we should have them in custody shortly.”
“Very
well. Once you have them, bring them back here and execute them all
immediately.”
General
Liang’s eyes opened slightly wider.
“Even
the Ambassador?”
“Yes.
We’ll blame it on the
former
regime if need be.”
“Very
well, sir.”
General
Liang snapped to attention, then left the room, leaving Bo alone with his
thoughts.
We
will have complete control in less than an hour.
7
th
District Police Station, Beijing, China
Inspector Li winced as the medic treating him dabbed the gash on the
back of his head with what was probably iodine or some equivalent. What it was,
he didn’t care, all he cared was that it stung.
And his
head throbbed.
He waved
his hand at his coworkers, urging them away. It was becoming claustrophobic. He
realized they were all concerned, all furious, all wanting revenge on whoever
had done this, but he also knew that he had pretty much ‘literally’ asked to be
hit.
He had
helped the proverbial enemy.
And he’d
do it again.
There
was no way that American professor should have been sentenced to death for what
had happened. As the medic announced he would live, but should go to the
hospital just in case, he waved him off.
“I’ll be
fine.”
“Back
up! Back up! Back up!” rapid fired Superintendent Hong, flicking his wrists to
make a path. “Give the man some air, he needs to breathe!”
The
crowd obeyed their superior’s orders, and finally gave Li the space he so
desperately wanted. Hong stopped in front of him and Li raised his head,
wincing at the pounding that seemed to increase four fold.
Hong
wagged a finger at him.
“You go
to the hospital. I don’t want you dropping dead tonight when you get home to
that beautiful wife of yours. Go to the hospital, get checked out, and take two
days off. More if the doctor orders it!”
Hong’s
shouting didn’t make things any better, and he was probably right. The medics
helped him to his feet and he scratched his last thought.
He’s definitely
right.
His head pounded, and he felt slightly light headed as they helped
him toward the door, the shouts of encouragement from his fellow officers,
torture.
As they
reached the parking lot, one medic let go of Li’s arm to open the door of the
ambulance as his phone vibrated in his pocket. Fishing it out, he read the text
message and froze. He reread it, then yanked his arm free of the other medic,
and marched toward an idling squad car, the medics shouting after him.
But he
didn’t hear them above the pounding in his head, and the concern that gripped
his chest. He looked at the message again.
Its ping.
Trapped at tiananmen square ne corner. Help!
North-East Corner, Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China
“What the hell is that?” asked Dawson, pointing behind them.
Laura
rolled on her back and looked where he was pointing. There were dozens of
people—scratch that—hundreds, running up the boulevard toward the square,
waving what appeared to be phones over their heads, all sporting the loudest of
outfits imaginable.
“I have
no idea,” she murmured.
“It’s a
flash mob,” said Ping with a smile. “That’s who I was texting. They are very
popular in China, hundreds occur every day. I tapped into several networks we
monitor and organized a bunch of them to happen right here, starting about now.
They’ll keep happening over the next half hour, probably growing with each one
as the word spreads. They only last five minutes.”
“What’s
with the clothing?” asked Dawson as Laura admired Ping’s thinking. It was
genius. Create a flash mob that would fill Tiananmen with young people, blend
in, then disappear with the crowd.
“Usually
you have a theme. This one is ‘wildest outfit’.”
As the
crowd approached, policemen who had been distracted by the arrival of the tanks
just moments ago started swarming from the square, whistles blowing, waving
their arms.
“Uh oh,”
muttered Laura. “This might not work after all.”
She
watched in dismay as several dozen formed a line, halting the advancing
partiers, who merely continued to hold up their phones, recording the
proceedings, their laughing and dancing not interrupted in the least. This was
the new China, and these were the new Chinese. A generation for whom Tiananmen
Square was a public park, not a shrine to the victims of a massacre.
Suddenly
the idea didn’t seem such a good one. She looked at Dawson, and the concern in
his eyes suggested he was having the same thoughts. In fact, if she didn’t know
better, she’d say he
never
thought it was a good idea.
Never
bring civilians into a military situation.
Watching
or reading the news, she was the first to criticize when civilians were used as
cover, or “meat shields” as James liked to call them, and now, here they were,
hoping to do the same thing. Slip away amongst a crowd of kids, counting on the
tanks lining the other side of the square to not open fire.
But this
wasn’t back home, or the United States. This was China.
Those
who cannot remember the past are doomed to repeat it.
The
often misquoted statement from George Santayana echoed through her mind,
memories of watching the Tiananmen massacre when she was the same age as some
of these kids flashing by like an old movie reel.
She
turned to Ping. “Can you cancel the flash mobs?”
“Why
would you want to do that?” she asked, her eyes revealing how idiotic she
thought the request was.
It was
Dawson who replied.
“These
are civilians, we can’t risk their lives to save ours.”
Horror
spread across Ping’s face as the realization of what she had done sank in.
“Oh no!
Oh no! Oh no!” she cried as her thumbs flew over the keyboard, but they were
interrupted by a cheer from the crowd. They all looked to see the crowd
pointing to the south end of the square. Laura spun around and saw hundreds if
not thousands of people rushing into the now unguarded square, the majority of
the police meant to prevent just such a thing crowded in the north-east corner
where the initial crowd had arrived.
“What
are they doing?” asked Laura as she saw the square get swarmed with more and
more kids, who appeared to sit down and do something with their arms.
“Pretending
to have a picnic,” said Ping, her shoulders slumped.
Immediately
police began to redeploy, running toward the new crowd, which freed up the
original crowd to rush around the officers that remained, their numbers having
swelled while they were blocked.
“How
many of these did you organize?” asked Dawson.
“Five.”
“Here
comes another crowd,” said Laura, pointing toward the tomb of Mao Zedong to the
south.
“Hats,”
muttered Ping. She dropped the phone in her lap. “It’s too late. There’s no way
I can stop it.”
“Then we
might as well take advantage of it,” said Dawson. He pointed at the
deliverymen. “Next group that walks by, you two join it,” he said. Ping
translated, and the men rose to their knees. A group of youth rushed by, their
colorful outfits an unfortunate contrast to the drab outfits the men wore, but
in seconds they were lost in the crowd.
Laura
peeked over their hiding place and could see no reaction from the tanks, but
noticed something else that sent her pulse racing.
“Something’s
going on.”
Dawson
looked then rolled over, grabbing the phone from Ping’s lap. He quickly dialed.
“ETA?”
He frowned.
“We’ve
got infantry starting to deploy here, plus thousands of civilians filling the
square.”
He
listened for a moment, his frown getting deeper.
“Understood.”
He
flipped the phone closed and looked at Laura.
“Things
are about to get a lot worse.”
Approaching Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China
Acton looked out the window, his frustration growing.
We need to
get there, now!
Something was definitely happening, and it wasn’t good. Traffic
was getting heavier, most of the cars flowing in the same direction they were,
causing a slowdown, exacerbated by dozens of cars just stopping randomly,
letting out their passengers, mostly young people, who then began rushing down
the sidewalks toward Tiananmen.
Sirens
wailing from behind caused them all to look.
Lights
flashed in the distance, approaching far too quickly to be in the same traffic
they were in.
“They’re
serious,” said Niner. “Looks like they’re coming up the sidewalks.”
“Shit!”
exclaimed Spock. “Look.”
Acton
spun around and saw a sea of red brake lights as the entire side of the
boulevard they were on came to a screeching halt. Spock, apparently already
anticipating this, cut across several lanes and jumped the curb, pulling a one-eighty
and roaring away in the opposite direction, the traffic fairly light on this
side.
“We’re
going the wrong way!” protested Acton. His visions were of Laura trapped in the
square, the tanks and soldiers apparently already there, opening fire.
Tiananmen
all over again.
“That’s
a police blockade they just put up. Last thing we need is to get questioned
with an escaped fugitive in the car,” replied Spock, who cranked the wheel
sending them into a side street. Another turn and they were heading back toward
the square, but on a smaller street that appeared to not yet have attracted the
attention of the authorities.
“Call
BD. Give him a sit rep. I think Tiananmen is going into lockdown.”
Niner
nodded and began dialing when Acton’s heart slammed against his chest. In a
nearby parking lot were a mass of soldiers, tanks, and a large semi-truck,
bristling with antennae.
This
is a staging area.
But for
what, he feared to ask.
North-East Checkpoint, Approaching Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China
Inspector Li showed his ID to one of the officers manning the
blockade and the man nodded, waving for the gate to be raised. Li had intended
to take his own car, but the idling squad car had been too good an opportunity
to pass up. He’d probably be reprimanded tomorrow, but he’d just blame his head
wound if need be. The squad car’s lights and sirens had allowed him to push
through the traffic, and eventually take the sidewalk up to the blockade.