Three Gorges Dam

By Thomas V. Harris

CHINA'S WESTERN FRONTIER IS A POWDER KEG.

ITS BUDDHIST AND MUSLIM MINORITIES ARE ABOUT TO LIGHT THE FUSE.

Michael Brannigan and the People's Republic of China are concluding a triumphant week. The PRC's top energy consultant has fallen in love with Australian geophysicist Kylie Ryan while traveling in Xinjiang Province. President Lao Ming is in Beijing hosting a game-changing summit with the United States. CNN is broadcasting the new reality: the Communist juggernaut has surpassed the US.

Brannigan’s train is retracing Marco Polo's historic journey. When the Silk Road Express reaches the Far East’s Far West, his team of engineers will assist the Chinese in developing the world's richest oil fields. Brannigan is heading deeper into the Taklamakan Desert as President Lao's motorcade approaches the end of its parade route. In a few hours, Lao will celebrate his victory in the Hall of Purple Light.

All that changes in two blinks of an eye. China's Young Turks and Fighting Monks rock the country. Caught up in the violence, Brannigan's love affair meets a tragic end. The Reds and rebels engage in an escalating cycle of provocations and reprisals. In the midst of the turmoil, Brannigan returns to China for a hush-hush assignment at Three Gorges Dam, the world's largest hydroelectric facility. There he overcomes his demons and finds lasting happiness. Everything is coming up aces.

UNTIL THE UNTHINKABLE HAPPENS.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jan 31, 2018
• ISBN: 9781543923902

Book preview

50

CHAPTER 1

THE MOTORCADE SLOWS as it nears the grandstand.

Two score deep, they’re standing shoulder to shoulder, banging into one another, waving little red flags. Thousands of people are overflowing onto the roadway to improve their views.

Beijing is once again ready for prime time.

China’s president is in the backseat of his limousine. Lao Ming is sitting between his chief of staff Jin Kai and secret service director Ren Chong. He turns to his left and asks his most trusted advisor, If you hadn’t paid them, how many would’ve come?

Jin Kai laughs. The television cameras don’t care.

Up ahead, a CNN anchor is interviewing a group of middle schoolers. The boys disregard their teacher’s admonition, run into the street, and salute the heavily armored limos. The president growls, The children should be in school.

They can learn more here.

About what?

Blue sky. It hasn’t been this clear since the Olympics.

Only because I shut down our freeways and factories for a week. When the Americans leave, we’ll be back to business as usual. The sky will be darker than dirt.

Cheer up, Mr. President. Tonight you’ll be at the Hall of Purple Light celebrating a great victory.

The farewell dinner can’t come soon enough.

You’re tired. Next week you’ll see things differently. The summit has been a game changer. It’s shown the world we’ve overtaken the US.

Because we bark the loudest?

Declining their White House invitation was brilliant. You forced them to come here and meet our demands. Their president hasn’t said a word about human rights, Tibet, or our Muslim unrest.

Minor statecraft, Lao says. Nothing more.

The chief of staff glances at his computer tablet. You’re too modest. The Western media are overwhelmingly positive, and the TV numbers are huge.

Their ignorance isn’t a cure for our problems.

The president asks Ren, Are you still arguing with the Americans? The secret service director is slow to respond. I don’t have all day, General.

They won’t allow us inside their limos.

I don’t blame them. Is that all?

They complained about being excluded from our briefings.

Dammit, General. Big picture.

Everything is fine, sir.

Jin interjects, Speaking of the Americans, they’re asking for something more formal to take back to the US.

We agreed on a joint press release.

Their negotiators want more than that.

Define ‘more.’

They want us to sign an accord.

It would be meaningless.

Their president is having trouble at home. They want to pretend they accomplished something.

What’s in it for us?

Improving relations with our strongest adversary.

What do you recommend? Lao asks.

A white paper—something bland and insignificant.

Give me the first sentence.

We negotiated matters of mutual interest and had a successful summit.

The presidents jousted over their competing economic interests. The most important involved the exchange rate between the dollar and the yuan, American access to Chinese markets, and protecting intellectual property. Their staffs traded proposals for a bilateral reduction of carbon emissions and a cyber cease-fire. The presidents finished with foreign policy matters. They haggled over the usual subjects: North Korea, Taiwan, and the Reds’ saber rattling in the East and South China Seas.

Lao listened to his American counterpart but said little. Today he is more animated. He waves his hand dismissively. It’s not worth the effort. Tell them we’ll continue buying US Treasuries and finance their runaway deficits. They can print that in their newspapers.

Why antagonize them, Mr. President?

Then just put them off.

What should I say?

That I need more time.

Can’t we say something positive?

Only if they renounce their Taiwanese puppets.

The Americans will never do that.

Then stop pestering me.

The president shifts his weight and glances at the trailing limousine. He has requested redesigned state cars. Not because of safety considerations. They just embarrass the hell out of him. Former President Hu Jintao designed the FAW Hongqi fleet. That’s the only reason Lao hasn’t sent the retro-futuristic limos to the crusher.

General Ren is in charge of the requisition effort. Lao asks him, When are you replacing the limousines?

The Standing Committee won’t authorize them.

Why not?

The chairman is afraid of the political repercussions.

They are such a blatant rip-off of the Phantom and DTS. We look like a banana republic. Lao doesn’t mention the features that bother him most—the Flash Gordon headlights and Buck Rogers trim.

His chief of staff rejoins the conversation. Mr. President, the general is aware of your feelings.

You know what they symbolize to Westerners. When neither aide responds, the president grumps, That we’re the knockoff capital of the world.

Secret service matters are outside Jin’s portfolio. But he ends the bickering. I’ll work things out. Until today’s outburst, Lao hadn’t mentioned the state cars for several months. There were bigger issues on his plate.

Summit security is at the top of the president’s agenda.

Shortly after scheduling the talks, he discussed his concern with General Ren and counterintelligence director Wei Yaoting. Lao began the conversation. The number of threats against their president is staggering.

Wei replied, They are coming from all over the world, including the US. A handful of groups have the capability to launch an attack.

I’m giving you a free hand.

Thank you, Mr. President.

I expect better-than-best security.

We’re going to ban all public gatherings.

Lao cut Wei off. Don’t burden me with the details.

Excuse me, sir. There is one thing I need to mention.

What are you waiting for? Get on with it.

I’m restricting travel from our western provinces.

How can we enforce something like that?

Imperfectly, Wei conceded.

The cost would be staggering.

So are the risks.

Are you on board with that, General?

I am, sir.

Then do it. Is that all, Director?

We’ll also detain all known troublemakers.

Without charges?

Yes, sir. We can sort things out later.

The president fired back, Martial law?

I wouldn’t call it that.

How would you describe it?

I’m not big on labels, Mr. President.

Welcome to my world. Learn to live in it or you’ll be patrolling the border with North Korea. You’re quiet, General Ren.

I understand, Mr. President.

Do you know the most important part of your jobs?

Wei answered, Infiltrating the Muslim high command.

Not even close.

When Ren didn’t venture a guess, Lao supplied the answer.

Don’t embarrass me.

The motorcade is about to conclude.

Lao asks General Ren, All quiet at the finish line?

Yes, Mr. President.

The limos are barely moving. Good job, General.

Thank you, sir.

How tight is security for tonight’s dinner?

Ren glances at the chief of staff. Jin’s nod signals the general that he should address the question. The Americans won’t let our men near their president.

If he is harmed, Lao says, everyone will think I was involved.

We’ve compensated with other measures. He’ll be safe, Mr. President.

Circling helicopters, building-top sharpshooters, and thousands of ground troops blanket the parade route. The president is still uneasy. He fidgets as he watches what’s happening outside. Ren is looking straight ahead. He’s fixated on the split-screen monitor tracking activity around the motorcade.

Like his state cars, Lao inherited the general. Ren rose up the ranks slowly, mostly by not making waves. The president describes him in public as an experienced commander. Lao’s real views are far less sanguine. He has found Ren to be rigid, slow-witted, and lacking in leadership ability.

The general isn’t armed. But his Zhongnanhai Baobiao are heavily fortified. The three secret service men are sitting across from the president. Each is packing a TT 33 handgun and has a QBZ-95-1 assault rifle stowed in the hollow beneath his seat. When he became president, Lao worried about a deranged or disgruntled Baobiao turning on him. Over time those fears have receded.

He asks the guards, How are we doing, men?

The most senior responds, Very well. Thank you, sir.

The president makes a point of getting to know his protectors. All are married and have families. That is a prerequisite to riding with him. The job’s perks include a free education for their children at one of Beijing’s elite schools. His motivation isn’t entirely beneficent. The scholarship program gives the Ministry of State Security instant access to the guards’ loved ones.

Lao tightened surveillance of his guards a month into his presidency. He told his chief of staff, "The Baobiao concern me more than my enemies."

A program is already in place, Jin replied.

Increase our wiretapping, computer hacking, and unannounced drug and lie-detector tests.

I’ll tighten the protocols. Anything else?

Tell them my response to the age-old question.

Which one is that, Mr. President?

Whether it’s better to be loved or feared.

They know your answer.

Make sure they understand the consequences.

How specific should I be?

One sentence should be sufficient. We’ll liquidate their entire family if they’re disloyal. Leave the details to their imagination.

It’s been a long week for the president.

The prep, the summit, and the nightly meetings have taken their toll. The molded seat Lao special-ordered is actually too comfortable. He’s nodding off, catching himself, and nodding off again. The president isn’t able to fight the cobwebs any longer. His chin slumps against his chest. Almost immediately he is sound asleep and snoring.

Lao’s nap is short lived. The driver jams on the brakes and comes to an abrupt stop. The deceleration jolts Lao's head forward then ratchets it back. The first sounds he hears are holsters unsnapping and the clicking of assault rifles. He thinks this is it—the coup d’état taking China back to Maoist purity and another bloody Cultural Revolution.

He’s relieved when he opens his eyes. The Baobiao are looking elsewhere. The two wingmen are down on one knee staring out their side windows. The senior bodyguard is sitting between them, directly across from the president. His focus is on what’s happening behind the limousine.

General Ren yells into his headset, Surround him!

Lao is moving closer to the monitor when the senior Baobiao points at the compartment under the floor pan. Waving him off, Lao asks the general, What’s going on? The general touches the middle of the screen and enlarges one of the images. A flaming figure is standing rigidly upright.

The president’s first impression is that someone is burning a scarecrow in effigy. That changes when he sees movement.

Is that a person?

Ren’s answer is a despondent Yes, sir.

The burning man seesaws his arms as he lumbers toward the front of the motorcade. Lao places a hand on Ren’s shoulder.

No shooting, General. Tell everyone to stand down.

Ren mumbles, Sir?

You heard me.

The man’s features are scorched beyond recognition. He isn’t wearing a robe and his ethnicity isn’t clear. The president still assumes he’s Tibetan. Buddhist monks have been setting themselves on fire for decades. Lao laments, Damn transparency. We should’ve insisted on a broadcast delay.

His chief of staff responds, We can’t do it now.

Do we have a dump button?

Jin was in charge of the TV negotiations.

Negative. CNN has sole control of the transmission.

There must be a way to cut the feeds.

There isn’t, sir. With all the video recorders and phone cameras, it wouldn’t make any difference.

Order the soldiers to extinguish the flames. When Ren doesn’t respond, Lao whispers in his ear, Pull yourself together, General. Tell your men to put out the fire.

Yes, sir.

Lao has seen videos of monks torching themselves. All of those immolations took place in Tibet and appeared staged, almost make-believe. It’s much different, he thinks, seeing it in person. The president watches the burning man stagger and fall. The suicide tries to get up but his left arm collapses, then his right.

Facedown in the street, he stops moving.

CHAPTER 2

THE TRAIN POWERS deeper into the Taklamakan Desert.

The Silk Road Express is crossing China’s Xinjiang Province. It’s three thousand kilometers west of Beijing. The outside temperature is a toasty thirty-five degrees Celsius. The day’s cultural activities have just finished. Most of the passengers are relaxing in the train’s sumptuous bar carriage.

Michael Brannigan is an exception. The CEO of Global Reach Engineering has a crushing headache. He left the group early and returned to his compartment. He popped a pill, drew the shades, and put on his sleeping mask. Since then he has been lying in bed trying to fall asleep.

The train began its trek a week ago. A twelve-member consortium of foreign engineers has the luxury liner to itself. Their spouses will fly home after touring Kashgar. The engineers and their geophysicist will helicopter to the Tarim Basin where they’ll supervise the development of China’s western energy fields. According to a recent Oil & Gas Journal article, those tracts contain the world’s largest reserves of fossil fuel.

Xinjiang has become a hot destination for Global Reach. The People’s Republic of China doesn’t allow foreign oil companies to buy equity stakes in its natural wealth. But the PRC needs outside consultants to supervise its corrupt officials and apply the cutting-edge technologies the Reds haven’t yet stolen.

During breakfast, the group’s tour guide previewed the train’s last stop.

When you awaken tomorrow, we’ll be in Kashgar, the farthest inland city on earth. It’s the ethnic heart of Xinjiang Province. We’ll spend the morning at the city’s East Gate Bazaar. The market has been open since 1 BC. Its four thousand booths have something for everyone. That’s also true of its Turkic cuisine. During our sit-down lunch, you can sample a wide variety of kebabs and other native delicacies.

An engineer’s wife raised her hand.

Yes, madam. Question?

I’ve enjoyed visiting local families. Can we do that in Kashgar?

That isn’t possible in southern Xinjiang.

Why not?

The local people are unhappy.

About what?

Political matters.

That shouldn’t affect us.

We’re taking precautions anyway.

A different spouse asked, Are we in danger out here?

We’ve never had a problem.

The projector advanced the next slide. Several wives gasped at the picture of a Uighur horseman waving a Yengisar dagger. The guide turned around to see what caused their reaction. The room continued to buzz after she cut the power.

Brannigan isn’t thinking about tomorrow’s activities.

The expedition leader, and its only American engineer, has gone fetal. Drugs and rest haven’t eased his pain. Even before his headache, he wasn’t particularly excited about the Kashgar visit. He’s never been there, and has a business-only interest in the Far East’s Far West. His knowledge of Xinjiang Province is limited: it forms China’s border with the Central Asian republics; native Uighurs call themselves WEEgores; and Marco Polo visited the area in the thirteenth century. He was already aware of what the guide told them. The Uighurs don’t get along with the Han Chinese.

He feels like someone jammed an ice pick through his right eye. It’s time to upgrade his medication. Shifting onto his right side, he lifts a corner of his sleeping mask. Bile starts shooting up his throat. He mutters, Not again, swallows the acid, and sends it back to his stomach. Some of it penetrated his nasal cavity. He sniffs several times in a futile attempt to eliminate the sulfuric smell.

He rolls to the edge of the bed and lays his mask on the pillow. The shades are down but the margins aren’t tight. Sunlight leaks into his compartment and aggravates his headache and stomach pain. He is mildly encouraged by the readout on his clock. He’ll have time to rally before tonight’s gala celebration.

He runs his hand across the nightstand. Then again closer to the lamp. His medications aren’t there. He tries the top drawer. His fingers get tangled in a charging cord before they bump into his pharmaceutical pouch. He unzips the kit, grabs a syringe, and primes it. He is in the buff and has no trouble selecting the proper injection site, the middle third of his thigh. The moment the plunger delivers the medicine he feels a modicum of relief—even though the juice hasn’t kicked in yet. His psychiatrist attributes these reactions to his placebic personality.

This wasn’t supposed to be his project. It landed in his lap when his chief of Asian operations had a family emergency. He doesn’t regret the long journey. Kylie has him flying ten feet off the ground. She is on his mind again. They’ve only been together a week, but he’ll miss her when this assignment ends.

He cautions himself to be realistic. Once they complete their work, he’ll go back to New York, and Kylie will return to Australia. It’s unlikely their professional paths will cross. Most of her clients are in Southeast Asia, the Indian subcontinent, or Down Under. Other than servicing his Chinese business, he directs his energies elsewhere.

He won’t have time to visit her. When he isn’t working at his Manhattan headquarters, he is traveling to the company’s Houston and San Francisco offices or to far-flung countries all over the world. Sydney wouldn’t work as his home base, and he can’t ask Kylie to uproot herself and live in Manhattan. She would be living alone most of the time. He knows her well enough to be sure of one thing. She would never put up with an absentee lover.

How will they end it? He dreads the thought. Right now he has a more immediate problem. He has already vomited twice, but his stomach is at it again. Sipping ginger ale sometimes eases his gastric distress. He considers making a run to the snack alcove at the end of his sleeper car. After mulling it over, he decides not to leave his compartment. The other members of his group have returned to the train. He can’t let anyone see him like this.

He reaches for the trash can, but it’s too far away. He stops moving and instinctively holds his breath when someone knocks on the door. Realizing no one’s hearing is that sensitive, he allows himself to exhale.

Michael, it’s me, Kylie.

When he doesn’t answer, she asks, How is your headache?

Another woman greets her before she has a chance to follow up. He recognizes the voice. It belongs to one of the European wives.

Congratulations, Kylie. You were made for each other.

Is it that obvious?

Brannigan is relieved when the other woman laughs. He won’t have to pretend anymore. He’s tried to be discreet about their coupling but obviously fooled no one.

CHAPTER 3

THE FIERY SUICIDE has paralyzed Beijing.

President Lao is furious. The army, secret service, and police are missing in action. His commanders are dumbstruck and no one is in control. The chaos is worst near the grandstand. The people who saw what happened are in a state of panic. They’re trampling one another in their haste to get away.

Soldiers and police are finally beginning to respond. A unit of elite troops and frontline Baobiao are running at full speed toward the suicide. Technicians in bomb suits are approaching more carefully.

The president snaps at General Ren. What are your men doing?

Disposing of the body.

That’s the coroner’s job, not yours. Set up a perimeter and search for conspirators. Preferably before they escape.

Yes, sir.

Jin Kai touches the president’s arm. I scheduled an emergency meeting.

Make sure our Tibet people are there.

Already on their way, Mr. President.

The name Sadat jumps into Lao’s mind. The video of the Cairo assassination left an indelible impression, mostly because it was so improbable. Egypt’s leader was at a victory parade when he was shot. He was on a military grandstand saluting the soldiers who murdered him. Recalling they had watched the film together, the president asks Jin, Does this seem familiar?

We aren’t in the Middle East.

Then why did you think of it?

Because I knew you would.

The president bypasses General Ren and speaks directly to his bodyguards. The suicide is a diversion.

The senior Baobiao replies, I’m on that, sir. He exchanges hand signals with the other guards and reports back, No obvious hostiles. He again points to the floor pan. Mr. President, please. We need to guarantee your safety.

The guard is about to open the compartment when the president waves him off a second time. Lao is convinced an assassin who gets inside the limousine will kill him no matter where he secretes himself. Avoiding vehicle penetration altogether is the only strategy that makes sense. He feels safer directing that effort than hiding. Even if it weren’t true, he would rather die than survive inside the protective well. The media would mock a president who was so frightened he didn’t protect the women and children he swore to defend.

The president wonders whether he missed a schism within his army. It’s usually disgruntled colonels, stuck behind fat-cat generals, who organize a putsch. He has the uneasy feeling something else is about to happen. If the suicide is only a distraction, he expects the real attack to happen soon.

The president’s jaw hurts and this morning’s chest pain is back. It’s radiating into his left arm. The worst part is the pressure. It feels like a vise is crushing his heart. Damn angina, he mutters to himself. He can’t think of a worse time for his ticker to act up. Rubbing his chest with his left hand, Lao reaches inside his coat pocket with his right. He opens a small container and slips a white pill under his tongue.

The Baobiao guarding the left door twitches. Calling out, Nine o’clock! he gets down on his knees and raises his rifle.

The president doesn’t need the monitor. The action is outside his left rear window. It can’t be, he says, when he sees a girl running toward his limousine.

The child is dressed in a green-plaid uniform with matching kneesocks. With everyone looking at the front of the motorcade, she darted into the street unimpeded. She’s coming right at him.

No shooting, General. Tell everyone else.

We should drive away, sir.

I don’t run away from children.

Lao notices her features and dark complexion. He suspects she is Tibetan—making it even more likely the suicide was a monk.

The girl is holding a metal can in her left hand. She slows down, tightens her grip, and squirts liquid over her head and shoulders. She redirects the nozzle and soaks her upper body. Raising the can to ear level, she sloshes the liquid as if gauging how much is left. She comes to a full stop, tilts her head back, and injects accelerant into her mouth.

The girl reaches into her sweater pocket—she has become increasingly robotic—and pulls out a plastic lighter. She rolls the spark wheel into the ignition button and holds it there. The gas ignites and produces a steady flame. She rubs the lighter against her chest. In an instant, she is on fire. The flames spread quickly to her head and arms, down her trunk, all the way to her legs and feet. Her thick black hair is burning, and in a few seconds mostly gone. The girl lurches forward. He thinks she must be drugged.

Out of the corner of his eye the president sees a member of the CNN crew running toward the girl with a shoulder-mounted camera. The photographer sprints past a group of soldiers. Risking his life for a slam-dunk Pulitzer, he films the entire way. The spectators are reacting more conservatively, but many are recording the event on their digital phones and cameras.

The girl drops the can and then the lighter. She extends her arms. They’re burning from thumb to thumb. She continues walking toward the president’s limousine. Five meters from the back door, she executes a half pirouette. She turns to the cameraman and sticks a burning finger into her mouth. Her face ignites. She takes a deep breath, holds it, and then exhales. Her throat expels a torrent of fire.

She redirects her attention to the president’s car. Lao detects what appears to be a wry smile on what remains of her mouth. She wobbles, lurches to her left, and falls onto her knees. The girl—she can’t be more than one and a half meters tall—pushes her hand against the pavement, regains her balance, and stands up. She shuffles forward until she’s close enough to touch the limousine. The bodyguards are ramped up and itching to exterminate the threat. They’re pointing their handguns at her chest when Lao yells, Leave the girl alone.

The president can’t believe what he’s seeing. The teenager has outsmarted him, his counterintelligence team, and the secret service. The girl is seemingly dead on her feet until an agonal movement—it’s her last—thrusts her against his car door.

Her arms are like mush, and her skin is sloughing off in clumps. She’s glued to the car, dying inch by excruciating inch. When no additional collaborators materialize, Lao assumes she is the final act of a Tibetan morality play. He’s lost confidence in his security team and decides to manage the aftermath himself.

Do we have any blankets?

Ren shrugs his shoulders and looks at the senior bodyguard. The Baobiao answers, They’re in the trunk. Should I get one?

Stay here. I’ll do it.

The senior guard moves toward the president. Please, sir. Don’t leave the car. Lao pushes his hand away.

Unlock your door, General.

Ren stammers, Why, Mr. President?

Because our friend is attached to the other one.

The general releases the lock and steps out of the limousine.

The president raises his voice above the din of police sirens, engines, and human commotion. Come with me to the trunk.

Behind the car, he asks, How did she know?

Know what, Mr. President?

There are a dozen limousines in the motorcade.

Yes, sir. We added two for this event.

We rotate their order every time.

Today was no different.

Lao pops the trunk and takes out one of the gray blankets stacked along the right edge. Then how did she know I was in this one?

Ren’s Adam’s apple jumps. We’ll look into that, sir.

The president walks toward the girl’s still-upright body. Ren is a step behind when they reach her. Lao turns on his heel and faces the general. I don’t need you here. Go to the grandstand . . . He pauses while he wraps the blanket around the girl and tamps down the remaining flames. She’s still smoldering when he picks her up, cradles her in his arms, and heads toward a CNN truck. The crew steps aside and he lays her on the pavement.

Ren holds a handkerchief against his nose and mouth. He bends forward and vomits into the linen. The second time, the emesis slops onto his sleeve. The president returns to the trunk. He comes back with an additional blanket and covers the girl from neck to toe. A pair of EMTs has just arrived. They rush to the girl’s side and kneel next to her. One inserts a needle into her hip while the other checks her pulse.

The president finishes his instructions to the general.

Director Wei is in the front row.

Ren tosses his handkerchief