Authors: J. Robert Kennedy
Nobody
moved, nobody said anything, everyone stunned.
Hong
slapped his hands together.
“Move!”
The
entire room bounced, then rushed into action, phone calls being made, text
messages sent, emails typed, as Hong watched with satisfaction, and a pride in
his men, and in himself.
Mother-in-law,
if you could see me now.
“Sir! I
have the Commissioner.”
Hong
nodded and strode into his office, closing the door behind him, as he picked up
his phone.
I
just hope he’s on the right side of this.
North of the Forbidden City, North of Tiananmen Square, Beijing,
China
The thunder of the gunfire was unmistakable. Acton had heard enough
of it in the Gulf War to know what an exploding round from a tank sounded like.
It was terrifying. The screams that erupted along with the automatic gunfire
left little doubt that whoever was firing, was firing on the crowd.
Acton
jumped from the car, Spock shouting after him to no avail, and sprinted toward
the gunfire. Bursting from the alleyway they were stopped in, he turned and
rushed up a more significant road, the square becoming visible and the horror
it contained causing him to slowly come to a halt, his hands flying up to his
head as he pulled at his hair, unable to comprehend the carnage in front of
him.
Footfalls
came to a stop beside him as the rest of the Delta team caught up, nobody
saying anything. To the left were what appeared to be a riot squad of nearly a
thousand men, to the right a row of tanks and infantry, and in the middle a
mass of living and dead flesh, an undulating sea of panic that ebbed and flowed
in all directions, those to the left seeing the police, thinking they were the
ones firing, and those to the right, seeing the army, and knowing they were
firing.
Acton
looked up and saw a squadron of helicopters hovering overhead, and his heart
stopped as they tilted forward slightly, streams of rockets erupting from their
weapons pods. He followed them as they streaked through the air, then dropped
to a knee as the police vehicles erupted into flames, scattering shrapnel in
all directions, police and kids alike blown apart, impaled, or tossed like
kindling onto an open fire.
Laura!
He had
no clue where she was, where to even begin looking. He pushed himself to his
feet as Niner sucked in a quick breath.
“Oh my
God!” he gasped.
Acton
followed his gaze, and they all watched in horror as the tanks spun their
treads in opposing directions, and took up new positions facing the crowds,
rather than perpendicular as they were a moment before.
Please,
God, no!
The
first tank jerked forward, followed by the rest, as they roared into the
square, those closest to Acton’s position rushing forward along the boulevard
to the north of the square to cut off any escape.
“They’re
killing them all!” he cried, his mind an explosion of sensations, it being
exposed to too much at once. He turned away, unable to look any more, but the
roar of the tanks continued, the shells firing indiscriminately into the crowds
continued, the small arms fire, continued.
And the
screams.
The
screams continued.
Bo Yang’s Mobile Headquarters, Beijing, China
“It’s working, sir, exactly as you predicted.”
General Liang
gushed with praise, Bo ignoring it.
Of course it worked.
It only worked
better than he could have ever imagined. The other flash mobs added to what he
had intended a hundred fold. The original plan called for the death of perhaps
several hundred. It was intended to shock the world, and would be used the next
day to justify his takeover, as it would be blamed on the government.
The
previous government.
He would
claim his troops moved in to try and protect the protesters from the police and
army forces attacking them, and with his helicopters having taken out the
People’s Armed Police rapid response team, the proof of his intended target was
clear. Were innocents killed by his men? Yes, but only by accident, in their
zeal to protect the many.
That
would be the story.
“Sir,
look at CNN International!”
Bo
looked at one of the screens, a red Breaking News banner emblazoned across the monitor
with YouTube video playing, showing the massacre, and a talking head commenting
as if he were an expert on everything.
Bo
smiled to himself. He knew it would take at least half an hour for any PLA
units to respond.
His
units were supposed to be the very PLA forces used
in a situation like this, and they were already rolling into position for
his
purposes. If everything went according to plan, if he could just get that
thirty minutes, he would have the city bottled up, with complete control by the
morning.
General Liang
scanned a report handed to him by an underling, then turned to Bo.
“Sir,
every major news network in the world is carrying the story. And they are all
reporting it as PLA firing on its own citizens!”
Half a
smile climbed Bo’s cheek.
“Any
response from our
leadership
?” The last word dripped with sarcasm.
General Liang
shook his head. “There’s been no response.”
Of
course not. In their arrogance, they sleep through their downfall.
North-East Corner, Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China
Laura cried, her chest heaving, her shoulders sagging as she sat on
her knees, watching the carnage unfold. She was helpless, she didn’t know what
to do. The horror of it all was just too much. She felt someone shove her
shoulder and push her back to the ground.
“Keep
down!” yelled Dawson.
She felt
like asking, “What’s the point?” but thought better of it. She could honestly
say she had never seen anything like this before, but she had been in
situations that had seemed hopeless at the time, and survived. But as the tanks
rushed into the crowd, Dawson had pointed out that their escape route to the north
was being blocked off by armor, and when the helicopters had opened fire, a
wall of flame and burning flesh blocked their escape to the east.
She
could see no way out.
Dawson
looked at her. They had cleared two of the concrete planters without being
shot. There was one more, the very one her beloved James had been pinned down
behind earlier, yellow maintenance tape surrounding it, the mess and blood all
washed away as if the events had never happened.
Dawson
pushed himself to his feet, the Ambassador still over his shoulder, and rushed
to the final bit of cover between them and the tanks surging to close the gap.
She looked across the square, then ran. Another volley erupted from the
helicopters overhead, and she dove for the ground, rolling in behind the
planter, and beside Dawson.
The
tanks were tearing forward, the lead one hung up on a car it had decided to
crush rather than go around, but they would have the road, their escape route,
blocked in moments.
“We have
to go, now!” yelled Dawson, who stood and rushed toward the street, exposed.
She jumped up and chased after him, her mind no longer controlling her actions
with reason, instead going on instinct in an effort to just survive the next
few minutes. She focused on Dawson’s back, her arms pumping at her sides, her
legs pushing hard against the concrete as she quickly caught up to him, the
warrior slowed by the burden he carried.
An
explosion erupted from her right, a round from a tank landing not thirty feet
away. Dawson was blown off his feet first, he and the Ambassador tossed half a
dozen yards to the left as she felt herself lifted in the air and thrown like a
marionette, its owner tired of pulling the strings.
Instinctively
she rolled, and was in a crouching position within seconds, the training she
and James had been receiving paying off. She rushed toward Dawson, noticing he
was holding his leg, and gasped as she saw a large piece of shrapnel protruding
from his calf.
The
screech of metal and the roar of a diesel engine caused her to spin around as
the lead tank barreled down on their position.
And she
did the only thing she could do.
She
stood up and turned to face the oncoming metal beast, her stance wide, her
shoulders squared, her arms held high in the air, not in surrender, but outward
in defiance, as if she could physically stop the tank herself through sheer
willpower. She knew if it didn’t stop, there was no way she could move Dawson
and the Ambassador herself, and had already decided her life was forfeit, there
being no way she would be able to escape the carnage unfolding around her.
She was
already dead.
And she
wasn’t going to spend her last few moments cowering in fear. She was going to
face them as she had faced life. In control, and in defiance of the odds.
She only
wished she had a chance to say goodbye to the man she loved.
And the
fact he wasn’t here with her, by her side, facing his death with her, was the
only thing she was grateful for this night.
For the
tank didn’t stop, it didn’t slow down. It continued to surge toward her, and
her visions of stopping a column of tanks like the brave soul dubbed ‘Tank Man’
in 1989, were about to be crushed under the treads of a juggernaut with no
scruples, no compassion, no concern.
An
automaton obeying its orders to the letter.
Crush
all those who oppose you.
Tiananmen Square, Beijing, China
Li pushed through the crowd, his phone in hand, desperately trying
to locate his daughter through the thousands of panicking youth. He had long
since abandoned ducking with each volley of gunfire, or each clap of thunder from
a tank. He knew he’d be dead regardless.
The
phone vibrated in his hand and he immediately hit the button to read the
message.
Daddy,
help me!
His
heart slammed against his ribcage, his chest tight as he typed a reply.
Where
are you?
It only
took a few seconds.
In
the square. I don’t know where.
His
thumbs flew as fast as they could, which was far slower than his younger
partner might have accomplished.
Are
you closer to the tanks, or the police?
Police.
He
sighed.
Keep
moving toward police and toward the forbidden city road. Meet me at corner.
He
pushed through the crowds, racing toward a rendezvous he prayed he could keep,
as another shell exploded amongst the crowd. Reaching the corner, he took cover
near a tourist kiosk, his own comrades, cowering behind the burnt out hulks of
their troop transports, or worse, dead, their bodies or body parts strewn
across the concrete, those that could were beginning to retreat.
And leaving
a crowd, in hysterics, not sure where to go. Glancing at the street, where he
hoped to cross in the next few minutes, he saw a column of tanks race from
their positions, pushing their way down the boulevard, and any escape to the
north.
“Daddy!”
He spun
as he heard the cry of his daughter slice through the crowd. He couldn’t see
her, but definitely had heard her, a father always knowing the sound of his
baby’s cry even if amongst a thousand others.
“Over
here!” he yelled, hoping his voice might guide her.
He heard
her call again, then two forms burst through the confusion, rushing directly
toward him. He jumped up and waved at them. His daughter rushed into his arms,
her tear streaked face flushed, her friend equally terrified. He took them each
by the hand and turned toward the boulevard.
He
gasped as he recognized the British professor standing in front of a tank that
barreled down on her, her companions lying on the ground behind her. But there
was nothing he could do for her, and for now, his priority was his child and
her friend.
He ran
toward the street, knowing full well he had to cross it and get to his car before
the tanks arrived, otherwise all hope was lost. His eyes fixated on the squad
car across the road, then his jaw dropped as all hope drained from him, the car
erupting in a ball of flame as it was taken out by one of the choppers
overhead.
He came
to a halt, wondering what to do, his eyes returning to the professor as she
stood defiantly, his mind drifting back to his own actions over twenty years
ago, when he had stood down a column of tanks exactly as she was doing.
But he
feared today’s outcome would be different than it had been for him.
Forbidden City, South-East Bridge, North-East of Tiananmen Square,
Beijing, China
“Laura, no!” screamed Acton, breaking from the grip Spock and Niner
had him in. When he saw Laura, his immediate instinct was to run to her, but
they had held him back as she had stood to face down the tank, to sacrifice
herself in one final, insane act, hoping those operating the tank would have
heart enough to not run over a woman standing in front of them.
But
these men had no morals, not if they could participate in something like this.
This slaughter, senseless in its intensity, could only be ordered by an insane
man, and could only be followed by those either too scared of the insanity, or
those devoid of emotion or caring, those who thought in ‘us and them’ terms,
where only ‘us’ were humans deserving of compassion, and ‘they’ were mere
animals meant to be slaughtered.