Rising, p.15
Dawn of Conflict: An epic world battle begins... (The Global War Military Thriller Series Book 1), page 15
“I don’t want to lead them to the PZ,” said Martinez. “How many are there?”
“No more than a dozen.”
“Let’s take them.”
“Yes, sir.” Chavez grinned evilly. “They’re coming in this direction.”
“Take the anchor end of the ambush. I’ll take the other end. Rest of the team between us.”
Chavez disappeared behind a tree, while Martinez moved along the line, setting up the ambush. Ortega was placed behind it to watch for the enemy from that direction. Martinez then settled in. He took one grenade and set it in front of him. He checked his weapon and then made sure that he could get to his spare magazines easily.
Now he could hear the enemy soldiers. There was the rustling of a bush against cotton. A twig snapped and two birds leaped into the air, squawking. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and listened to the jungle, to the insects and birds and animals. He opened his eyes and stared into the shadows, watching for signs of the men following them.
There was a flash of movement. Martinez reached down and picked up the grenade, pulling the pin. He waited for a moment and saw the first of the Cubans appear. He was a short, dark man with a helmet pulled low. Behind him were two more soldiers, each armed with an AK-47.
Martinez cocked his arm and waited until he could see another three of the Cubans, then threw the grenade, aiming at the last man in the line. An instant later it detonated with a flat bang that tossed dirt and debris up into the air. A second and third explosion followed as the other members of the team threw grenades. Firing erupted as the men tried to cut down the Cubans.
One of them dived for cover and then popped up four or five feet closer. Martinez fired, missed, and shot again. The Cuban whirled and fired, the rounds snapping past Martinez’s ear. He dived to the right, rolled, and came up, firing on full auto. The rounds stitched the Cuban from shoulder to hip. Blood spurted as the man flipped to the rear and didn’t move as his heart gave out.
The firing died out as quickly as it started. The Cubans were all down and none of them was moving. Martinez stood slowly, his weapon pointed at the ambush site. He stepped forward, his eyes on the one man he could see.
The patrol slowly filtered out of the trees, watching the men lying dead in the jungle. Martinez kicked an AK away from an outstretched hand. He crouched and reached out to the corpse’s blood-soaked pockets. The odor of hot copper filled the air. Martinez took the man’s wallet and a pack of papers that was stuffed in next to it. He wanted to take the weapon to deny it to the enemy, but a state of war didn’t exist. His taking a single AK or half a dozen wouldn’t make any difference.
Chavez and Banse moved among the dead, searching their pockets, taking anything they could find. That was standard operating procedure. Take anything that might be of intelligence value. In the field they didn’t know what would be important, so they stole it all.
Martinez stood up. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You want me to take the point?” Chavez asked.
“No,” said Martinez. “Banse. Take the point. Chavez, you’ve got the rear.”
They moved out, forming up, filtering through the jungle. Now they moved faster, trying to get away from the ambush point before the Cubans could respond. They ran, or tried to, but the jungle was too thick. The thorn-covered bushes and the sticker-ladened vines grabbed at them; other plants tugged at them, holding them back.
They broke out of the jungle suddenly and into a long, narrow clearing with thick, waist-high grass. Banse hesitated at the edge, glancing up at the sun. He looked back at Martinez and then sprinted into the center. A moment later he reached the other side. He stopped there.
The rest of the team followed him and, once on the other side, took a short break. They fanned out in a ragged circle, each man covering the man on his right and left.
Chavez slipped up on Martinez. “We’re still four or five miles from the PZ.”
“I know.”
“We’re going to have to get out of the jungle. Too many Cubans around now.”
Martinez hesitated. “Any reason we can’t use this clearing for the pickup?”
“It’s big enough,” said Chavez.
“You have a clue as to pickup times?”
“No, sir. I just told Banse to get it arranged.”
Martinez got out his map and worked his way around. “We’re going to secure this clearing, Banse. I want pick up arranged here.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can.”
Martinez returned to Chavez. “Make a quiet sweep around here. I don’t want the Cubans sneaking up on us.”
“I haven’t heard anything in the last thirty minutes or so,” said Chavez.
“We’ll just make sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martinez moved to the edge of the jungle and looked out over the sun-drenched clearing. The helicopter pilots wouldn’t like the deep grass because obstructions — tree stumps, logs, rocks — could be hidden in it. They’d be afraid of impaling their choppers.
But they couldn’t survey the clearing because he didn’t want anyone in it until the choppers were inbound. Now, looking back, he could see the paths they had taken as they ran through it. The grass hadn’t recovered. The trails were obvious, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Banse appeared at his elbow and whispered, “Everything’s set. We’ll have to throw smoke.”
“ETA?”
“About thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“Yes, sir. They were standing by, and when the first call arrived, they got airborne. One chopper will divert to us and the other two will pick up Alvarez and his team.”
“Thirty minutes.” Martinez couldn’t believe it. If only the pilots would be smart enough to bring the cold beer, it would be perfect.
Chavez came back. “There’s someone out there,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“How far?”
“Half a klick, maybe more. They’re not coming directly at us, but they’re coming in this direction in a very roundabout fashion.”
“We’ve got maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes to the pickup,” said Martinez.
“It’s going to be close.”
Martinez slipped to the rear and found Banse. “You better get on the horn and see if you can stir things up. We’ve got some company coming.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he found Cline. “I want you to get the men organized here. Coordinate with Banse and throw the smoke when the lead pilot calls for it. We need to get the choppers in and out as quickly as possible.”
“Where will you be?”
“Sergeant Chavez and I will be out there watching for the Cubans. We’ll be on the chopper before lift-off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martinez and Chavez slipped deeper into the jungle, moving toward the Cuban soldiers that Chavez had spotted. They left the rest of the patrol a hundred yards behind them and found a point where they could see fifty yards through light scrub and hanging vegetation.
“This is perfect,” said Chavez.
Martinez dropped to one knee and then didn’t move. For a few moments he could hear only the natural sounds of the jungle: lizards and monkeys and birds. Some of them ran through the canopy overhead, rustling the branches and chattering at one another. Then, from the distance came another sound. Martinez turned slightly and recognized the quiet pop of rotor blades. He glanced at Chavez. “Let’s go.”
But now there was noise in front of them, too. The Cubans had turned and seemed to be heading directly toward the PZ. Martinez pointed in that direction. Chavez nodded. Neither of them moved.
The chopper was coming closer. They could hear the whine of the turbine. Martinez stood up and glanced to the rear. He still hadn’t seen the Cubans. They didn’t seem to be moving any faster.
Chavez slipped to the right. “I think we’d better get out of here now.”
“I’m right behind you,” said Martinez. As he moved he could see purple smoke billowing up through the trees. The helicopter was was almost there.
Chavez caught him. “Cubans coming up. They’re running at us now.”
“Go,” said Martinez.
Chavez pushed his way through the jungle, heading toward the rest of the patrol. Martinez followed for a moment but then stopped and whirled. Now he could see the Cubans. They had closed the gap.
The helicopter was hovering near the ground, the noise from the engine and rotors filling the jungle and overpowering the other sounds. The rotor wash was tearing at the vegetation, forcing it down, and swirling it around like the winds of a cyclone.
A single shot rang out and then a short burst. Martinez dodged right and then left. He whirled, saw one man, and opened fire. A short burst and then a longer one. He saw the enemy diving for cover. Now Martinez spun and started to run again. He only had to stop the Cubans for a few seconds. Then he’d be on the aircraft, flying out.
He caught Chavez at the edge of the jungle. He stopped there and watched the helicopter come in. It hovered ten feet above the ground, the rotor wash flattening the grass. The purple smoke from the grenade was sucked up by the rotor, twisted around, and blown off.
Cline and the rest of the patrol were now running at the chopper. It dropped slowly as the pilots searched the ground under them, making sure they weren’t going to crash into something.
Martinez burst out of the trees, right behind Chavez. “Go,” he yelled. “Go.”
Cline reached the chopper as it settled into the grass. The door on the cargo compartment was open and a man was standing in it, watching. He looked bewildered by the dash made by the men in the jungle.
Firing erupted from the jungle. Martinez ran straight for the side of the helicopter. Through the windshield he could see both the pilots, one of them sitting with her eyes wide open. Tracers were flashing overhead.
At the nose of the chopper Martinez turned. There was movement inside the jungle. The muzzle flashes sparkled in the shadows of the trees.
Cline was now peeking out of the cargo compartment. “Come on, sir.”
Martinez squeezed off a sustained burst, holding the trigger down until the magazine was empty. He whirled and ran toward the cargo compartment. The whole patrol was inside now. Cline and Chavez were leaning out, hanging on, reaching for Martinez. He grabbed Chavez’s hand and felt himself lifted from his feet. He was jerked toward the interior of the chopper and fell, sprawling on his face.
The chopper seemed to jump into the air. It spun quickly and the nose dipped as the pilot took off. Martinez turned and glanced out of the cargo compartment. The ground was racing by under him as they climbed rapidly into the sky. He watched the Cubans spill into the PZ, their weapons pointed up at the chopper, but not shooting.
“Did it,” Chavez yelled. “We fucking did it. Got the hell out.”
Martinez grinned and asked, “Anyone bring the beer?”
CHAPTER 14
TOKYO, JAPAN
Had Sara Keller refused to provide the information, Reisman would never have found the tiny warehouse. And if Keller hadn’t called ahead, warning those in the warehouse that Reisman would be coming, he would never have gotten inside the door. They would either have refused to answer the buzzer or refused him entrance. As it was, they let him inside to look around.
A man dressed in shabby and shapeless jeans and a ripped old work shirt, with a cloth strip around his head, met him at the door. Reisman looked at the Japanese man and shook his head. “I might be in the wrong place.”
“Your name?”
“Reisman.”
“You have ID?”
Reisman pulled out his wallet and showed the man his New Mexico driver’s license.
“Anyone can get driver’s license.”
Reisman showed his press card and a couple of credit cards. The man took the wallet, looked at the money, selected several bills, and handed the wallet back.
“You follow me.”
Reisman stuffed the wallet into his hip pocket. “I’m right behind you.”
They walked down a narrow hall, past a couple of doors that looked like bank vaults and a couple of doors that looked as if they were about to fall in. At the end of the corridor, a single bright light hung down, illuminating the floor. Reisman stopped in the center of the light. The man reached out and touched the button on the frame.
A small eyehole opened, closed, and then the vault door began to swing in. The man there said, “I’ll take over now.”
The first man nodded, turned, and began to walk away. The new man said, “Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
As the man closed the vault door Reisman looked around. The room wasn’t big, not much more than twelve by fifteen feet. The walls were smooth metal, and if someone dropped an atomic bomb on Tokyo, the room would probably survive. If the bomb wasn’t too big and hit a mile away.
Cardboard boxes were stacked along one wall. Metal shelves were against another, and each shelf held hundreds of bibles. All kinds of bibles, from the King James version right up to the latest edition from Reader’s Digest that held full-color illustrations and black-and-red text.
More boxes against the back wall contained various items — toothbrushes, soap, razors, toilet paper, a few canned goods, and boxes of crackers or cereal. All sorts of things that couldn’t be found, bought, or stolen in China.
“What the hell is going on here?” Reisman asked.
One of the men, who had been sitting on the floor, stood up. “You are?”
Reisman moved toward him, his hand out to be shaken.
“Morris Reisman. I’m a reporter with the —”
“Christ! That’s all we need. A reporter.” Reisman studied the man. He was tall and young, looking as if he’d been out of college for a year or two, with light-colored hair, blue eyes, and narrow features. He looked out of place with the other people in the room.
“Sit down, Steve,” said one of the women. She was a small woman with long, black hair.
“Steve?” said Reisman.
“MacKenzie. And don’t get your hopes up. I’m not going to introduce the others. You don’t need to know their names.”
“Okay,” said Reisman. He’d been in hostile environments before. The moment he identified himself as a reporter, the subjects clammed up, figuring him for the enemy. But if he stayed quiet, asked an occasional, nonthreatening question, they would open up for him. “What’s going on? Smuggling Bibles to the Chinese?”
MacKenzie sat down in front of a large carton. He picked up a Bible and flipped it open, showing Reisman that the interior had been cut out and a videotape hidden inside.
Reisman knelt beside him. “What the hell?”
“We figure that — this is all off the record?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. We figure that the Chinese will figure we’re smuggling the Bibles, hidden among the consumer goods, into China. They won’t look further than that. But what we’re really doing is smuggling in the tapes.”
“Why?”
“Tapes show what it’s like out in the real world. This month it’s a walk down Rodeo Drive. It shows to all what our glorious capitalism can do for you. Opulence as far as the eye can see. Dozens, nay, thousands of well-dressed, decadently rich Americans of all persuasions walking among the shops that are filled with consumer goods.”
“I’d think it would look staged.”
“Hell,” said MacKenzie, “I would think they all look staged, but then, when the tapes of New York City, with the burned-out buildings and rubble-strewn street lots are used, there are always cars on the streets and pedestrians carrying boom boxes. It sends conflicting messages and starts the Chinese citizens thinking.”
“I don’t get it,” said Reisman.
MacKenzie put down the Bible he held. “The theory is that the Chinese see our problems, but they also see the people on the street with boom boxes and cars. They see all the conflicts, but the visual evidence is that everyone is rich in America. Or more importantly, that there are lots of consumer goods available to everyone.”
“My point,” said Reisman, “is that the Chinese are going to see the trouble in our country.”
“But the Chinese government tells them that America is decaying and on the verge of collapse.” He grinned and picked up one of the cassettes. “Our own tapes suggest that.”
“Exactly.”
“But then the Chinese people look at the tapes carefully. Who owns all those cars? Why does the man carry a huge tape recorder and radio around? Why do all those people have bright clothes? Conflicting messages.”
Now Reisman nodded. “So that the citizens realize that their government is filling them with propaganda. Our tapes say, sure, we have troubles, but not like the ones you face.”
“The only thing I worry about,” said MacKenzie, “is whether there are enough video recorders in China to play the tapes. The smuggling doesn’t do much good if the person at the other end can’t watch it.”
“You remember back — what, five, six years ago — when the students were attempting to win reforms. There was that big democracy demonstration in Beijing?” said the woman.
“Yeah?” said MacKenzie.
“Well, the students at American universities were faxing information to the students in Beijing. Who would have thought that any Chinese student would have had access to a fax machine?”
“Good point,” said Reisman.
“Information,” said MacKenzie. “That’s the way we’re going to destroy the Communist world. In the old days, when information about the rest of the world could be restricted, you could tell your people anything and they would believe it. Today, with satellite communications, telephone lines into everywhere, and videotapes, you can’t stop the flow of information. People can see with their own eyes everything going on.”
“Is it working?” Reisman asked.
“Hell.” MacKenzie grinned. “We don’t know. We’re just sending the tapes in. But it’s a lot cheaper than funding a new weapons system. The B-2 costs what now? A billion dollars a plane or something equally ridiculous.”
“Have you smuggled anything into China yet?”
“No more than a dozen.”
“Let’s take them.”
“Yes, sir.” Chavez grinned evilly. “They’re coming in this direction.”
“Take the anchor end of the ambush. I’ll take the other end. Rest of the team between us.”
Chavez disappeared behind a tree, while Martinez moved along the line, setting up the ambush. Ortega was placed behind it to watch for the enemy from that direction. Martinez then settled in. He took one grenade and set it in front of him. He checked his weapon and then made sure that he could get to his spare magazines easily.
Now he could hear the enemy soldiers. There was the rustling of a bush against cotton. A twig snapped and two birds leaped into the air, squawking. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment and listened to the jungle, to the insects and birds and animals. He opened his eyes and stared into the shadows, watching for signs of the men following them.
There was a flash of movement. Martinez reached down and picked up the grenade, pulling the pin. He waited for a moment and saw the first of the Cubans appear. He was a short, dark man with a helmet pulled low. Behind him were two more soldiers, each armed with an AK-47.
Martinez cocked his arm and waited until he could see another three of the Cubans, then threw the grenade, aiming at the last man in the line. An instant later it detonated with a flat bang that tossed dirt and debris up into the air. A second and third explosion followed as the other members of the team threw grenades. Firing erupted as the men tried to cut down the Cubans.
One of them dived for cover and then popped up four or five feet closer. Martinez fired, missed, and shot again. The Cuban whirled and fired, the rounds snapping past Martinez’s ear. He dived to the right, rolled, and came up, firing on full auto. The rounds stitched the Cuban from shoulder to hip. Blood spurted as the man flipped to the rear and didn’t move as his heart gave out.
The firing died out as quickly as it started. The Cubans were all down and none of them was moving. Martinez stood slowly, his weapon pointed at the ambush site. He stepped forward, his eyes on the one man he could see.
The patrol slowly filtered out of the trees, watching the men lying dead in the jungle. Martinez kicked an AK away from an outstretched hand. He crouched and reached out to the corpse’s blood-soaked pockets. The odor of hot copper filled the air. Martinez took the man’s wallet and a pack of papers that was stuffed in next to it. He wanted to take the weapon to deny it to the enemy, but a state of war didn’t exist. His taking a single AK or half a dozen wouldn’t make any difference.
Chavez and Banse moved among the dead, searching their pockets, taking anything they could find. That was standard operating procedure. Take anything that might be of intelligence value. In the field they didn’t know what would be important, so they stole it all.
Martinez stood up. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“You want me to take the point?” Chavez asked.
“No,” said Martinez. “Banse. Take the point. Chavez, you’ve got the rear.”
They moved out, forming up, filtering through the jungle. Now they moved faster, trying to get away from the ambush point before the Cubans could respond. They ran, or tried to, but the jungle was too thick. The thorn-covered bushes and the sticker-ladened vines grabbed at them; other plants tugged at them, holding them back.
They broke out of the jungle suddenly and into a long, narrow clearing with thick, waist-high grass. Banse hesitated at the edge, glancing up at the sun. He looked back at Martinez and then sprinted into the center. A moment later he reached the other side. He stopped there.
The rest of the team followed him and, once on the other side, took a short break. They fanned out in a ragged circle, each man covering the man on his right and left.
Chavez slipped up on Martinez. “We’re still four or five miles from the PZ.”
“I know.”
“We’re going to have to get out of the jungle. Too many Cubans around now.”
Martinez hesitated. “Any reason we can’t use this clearing for the pickup?”
“It’s big enough,” said Chavez.
“You have a clue as to pickup times?”
“No, sir. I just told Banse to get it arranged.”
Martinez got out his map and worked his way around. “We’re going to secure this clearing, Banse. I want pick up arranged here.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do what I can.”
Martinez returned to Chavez. “Make a quiet sweep around here. I don’t want the Cubans sneaking up on us.”
“I haven’t heard anything in the last thirty minutes or so,” said Chavez.
“We’ll just make sure.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martinez moved to the edge of the jungle and looked out over the sun-drenched clearing. The helicopter pilots wouldn’t like the deep grass because obstructions — tree stumps, logs, rocks — could be hidden in it. They’d be afraid of impaling their choppers.
But they couldn’t survey the clearing because he didn’t want anyone in it until the choppers were inbound. Now, looking back, he could see the paths they had taken as they ran through it. The grass hadn’t recovered. The trails were obvious, but there was nothing he could do about it.
Banse appeared at his elbow and whispered, “Everything’s set. We’ll have to throw smoke.”
“ETA?”
“About thirty minutes.”
“Thirty minutes?”
“Yes, sir. They were standing by, and when the first call arrived, they got airborne. One chopper will divert to us and the other two will pick up Alvarez and his team.”
“Thirty minutes.” Martinez couldn’t believe it. If only the pilots would be smart enough to bring the cold beer, it would be perfect.
Chavez came back. “There’s someone out there,” he said, his voice a hoarse whisper.
“How far?”
“Half a klick, maybe more. They’re not coming directly at us, but they’re coming in this direction in a very roundabout fashion.”
“We’ve got maybe twenty, twenty-five minutes to the pickup,” said Martinez.
“It’s going to be close.”
Martinez slipped to the rear and found Banse. “You better get on the horn and see if you can stir things up. We’ve got some company coming.”
“Yes, sir.”
Then he found Cline. “I want you to get the men organized here. Coordinate with Banse and throw the smoke when the lead pilot calls for it. We need to get the choppers in and out as quickly as possible.”
“Where will you be?”
“Sergeant Chavez and I will be out there watching for the Cubans. We’ll be on the chopper before lift-off.”
“Yes, sir.”
Martinez and Chavez slipped deeper into the jungle, moving toward the Cuban soldiers that Chavez had spotted. They left the rest of the patrol a hundred yards behind them and found a point where they could see fifty yards through light scrub and hanging vegetation.
“This is perfect,” said Chavez.
Martinez dropped to one knee and then didn’t move. For a few moments he could hear only the natural sounds of the jungle: lizards and monkeys and birds. Some of them ran through the canopy overhead, rustling the branches and chattering at one another. Then, from the distance came another sound. Martinez turned slightly and recognized the quiet pop of rotor blades. He glanced at Chavez. “Let’s go.”
But now there was noise in front of them, too. The Cubans had turned and seemed to be heading directly toward the PZ. Martinez pointed in that direction. Chavez nodded. Neither of them moved.
The chopper was coming closer. They could hear the whine of the turbine. Martinez stood up and glanced to the rear. He still hadn’t seen the Cubans. They didn’t seem to be moving any faster.
Chavez slipped to the right. “I think we’d better get out of here now.”
“I’m right behind you,” said Martinez. As he moved he could see purple smoke billowing up through the trees. The helicopter was was almost there.
Chavez caught him. “Cubans coming up. They’re running at us now.”
“Go,” said Martinez.
Chavez pushed his way through the jungle, heading toward the rest of the patrol. Martinez followed for a moment but then stopped and whirled. Now he could see the Cubans. They had closed the gap.
The helicopter was hovering near the ground, the noise from the engine and rotors filling the jungle and overpowering the other sounds. The rotor wash was tearing at the vegetation, forcing it down, and swirling it around like the winds of a cyclone.
A single shot rang out and then a short burst. Martinez dodged right and then left. He whirled, saw one man, and opened fire. A short burst and then a longer one. He saw the enemy diving for cover. Now Martinez spun and started to run again. He only had to stop the Cubans for a few seconds. Then he’d be on the aircraft, flying out.
He caught Chavez at the edge of the jungle. He stopped there and watched the helicopter come in. It hovered ten feet above the ground, the rotor wash flattening the grass. The purple smoke from the grenade was sucked up by the rotor, twisted around, and blown off.
Cline and the rest of the patrol were now running at the chopper. It dropped slowly as the pilots searched the ground under them, making sure they weren’t going to crash into something.
Martinez burst out of the trees, right behind Chavez. “Go,” he yelled. “Go.”
Cline reached the chopper as it settled into the grass. The door on the cargo compartment was open and a man was standing in it, watching. He looked bewildered by the dash made by the men in the jungle.
Firing erupted from the jungle. Martinez ran straight for the side of the helicopter. Through the windshield he could see both the pilots, one of them sitting with her eyes wide open. Tracers were flashing overhead.
At the nose of the chopper Martinez turned. There was movement inside the jungle. The muzzle flashes sparkled in the shadows of the trees.
Cline was now peeking out of the cargo compartment. “Come on, sir.”
Martinez squeezed off a sustained burst, holding the trigger down until the magazine was empty. He whirled and ran toward the cargo compartment. The whole patrol was inside now. Cline and Chavez were leaning out, hanging on, reaching for Martinez. He grabbed Chavez’s hand and felt himself lifted from his feet. He was jerked toward the interior of the chopper and fell, sprawling on his face.
The chopper seemed to jump into the air. It spun quickly and the nose dipped as the pilot took off. Martinez turned and glanced out of the cargo compartment. The ground was racing by under him as they climbed rapidly into the sky. He watched the Cubans spill into the PZ, their weapons pointed up at the chopper, but not shooting.
“Did it,” Chavez yelled. “We fucking did it. Got the hell out.”
Martinez grinned and asked, “Anyone bring the beer?”
CHAPTER 14
TOKYO, JAPAN
Had Sara Keller refused to provide the information, Reisman would never have found the tiny warehouse. And if Keller hadn’t called ahead, warning those in the warehouse that Reisman would be coming, he would never have gotten inside the door. They would either have refused to answer the buzzer or refused him entrance. As it was, they let him inside to look around.
A man dressed in shabby and shapeless jeans and a ripped old work shirt, with a cloth strip around his head, met him at the door. Reisman looked at the Japanese man and shook his head. “I might be in the wrong place.”
“Your name?”
“Reisman.”
“You have ID?”
Reisman pulled out his wallet and showed the man his New Mexico driver’s license.
“Anyone can get driver’s license.”
Reisman showed his press card and a couple of credit cards. The man took the wallet, looked at the money, selected several bills, and handed the wallet back.
“You follow me.”
Reisman stuffed the wallet into his hip pocket. “I’m right behind you.”
They walked down a narrow hall, past a couple of doors that looked like bank vaults and a couple of doors that looked as if they were about to fall in. At the end of the corridor, a single bright light hung down, illuminating the floor. Reisman stopped in the center of the light. The man reached out and touched the button on the frame.
A small eyehole opened, closed, and then the vault door began to swing in. The man there said, “I’ll take over now.”
The first man nodded, turned, and began to walk away. The new man said, “Come on in.”
“Thanks.”
As the man closed the vault door Reisman looked around. The room wasn’t big, not much more than twelve by fifteen feet. The walls were smooth metal, and if someone dropped an atomic bomb on Tokyo, the room would probably survive. If the bomb wasn’t too big and hit a mile away.
Cardboard boxes were stacked along one wall. Metal shelves were against another, and each shelf held hundreds of bibles. All kinds of bibles, from the King James version right up to the latest edition from Reader’s Digest that held full-color illustrations and black-and-red text.
More boxes against the back wall contained various items — toothbrushes, soap, razors, toilet paper, a few canned goods, and boxes of crackers or cereal. All sorts of things that couldn’t be found, bought, or stolen in China.
“What the hell is going on here?” Reisman asked.
One of the men, who had been sitting on the floor, stood up. “You are?”
Reisman moved toward him, his hand out to be shaken.
“Morris Reisman. I’m a reporter with the —”
“Christ! That’s all we need. A reporter.” Reisman studied the man. He was tall and young, looking as if he’d been out of college for a year or two, with light-colored hair, blue eyes, and narrow features. He looked out of place with the other people in the room.
“Sit down, Steve,” said one of the women. She was a small woman with long, black hair.
“Steve?” said Reisman.
“MacKenzie. And don’t get your hopes up. I’m not going to introduce the others. You don’t need to know their names.”
“Okay,” said Reisman. He’d been in hostile environments before. The moment he identified himself as a reporter, the subjects clammed up, figuring him for the enemy. But if he stayed quiet, asked an occasional, nonthreatening question, they would open up for him. “What’s going on? Smuggling Bibles to the Chinese?”
MacKenzie sat down in front of a large carton. He picked up a Bible and flipped it open, showing Reisman that the interior had been cut out and a videotape hidden inside.
Reisman knelt beside him. “What the hell?”
“We figure that — this is all off the record?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. We figure that the Chinese will figure we’re smuggling the Bibles, hidden among the consumer goods, into China. They won’t look further than that. But what we’re really doing is smuggling in the tapes.”
“Why?”
“Tapes show what it’s like out in the real world. This month it’s a walk down Rodeo Drive. It shows to all what our glorious capitalism can do for you. Opulence as far as the eye can see. Dozens, nay, thousands of well-dressed, decadently rich Americans of all persuasions walking among the shops that are filled with consumer goods.”
“I’d think it would look staged.”
“Hell,” said MacKenzie, “I would think they all look staged, but then, when the tapes of New York City, with the burned-out buildings and rubble-strewn street lots are used, there are always cars on the streets and pedestrians carrying boom boxes. It sends conflicting messages and starts the Chinese citizens thinking.”
“I don’t get it,” said Reisman.
MacKenzie put down the Bible he held. “The theory is that the Chinese see our problems, but they also see the people on the street with boom boxes and cars. They see all the conflicts, but the visual evidence is that everyone is rich in America. Or more importantly, that there are lots of consumer goods available to everyone.”
“My point,” said Reisman, “is that the Chinese are going to see the trouble in our country.”
“But the Chinese government tells them that America is decaying and on the verge of collapse.” He grinned and picked up one of the cassettes. “Our own tapes suggest that.”
“Exactly.”
“But then the Chinese people look at the tapes carefully. Who owns all those cars? Why does the man carry a huge tape recorder and radio around? Why do all those people have bright clothes? Conflicting messages.”
Now Reisman nodded. “So that the citizens realize that their government is filling them with propaganda. Our tapes say, sure, we have troubles, but not like the ones you face.”
“The only thing I worry about,” said MacKenzie, “is whether there are enough video recorders in China to play the tapes. The smuggling doesn’t do much good if the person at the other end can’t watch it.”
“You remember back — what, five, six years ago — when the students were attempting to win reforms. There was that big democracy demonstration in Beijing?” said the woman.
“Yeah?” said MacKenzie.
“Well, the students at American universities were faxing information to the students in Beijing. Who would have thought that any Chinese student would have had access to a fax machine?”
“Good point,” said Reisman.
“Information,” said MacKenzie. “That’s the way we’re going to destroy the Communist world. In the old days, when information about the rest of the world could be restricted, you could tell your people anything and they would believe it. Today, with satellite communications, telephone lines into everywhere, and videotapes, you can’t stop the flow of information. People can see with their own eyes everything going on.”
“Is it working?” Reisman asked.
“Hell.” MacKenzie grinned. “We don’t know. We’re just sending the tapes in. But it’s a lot cheaper than funding a new weapons system. The B-2 costs what now? A billion dollars a plane or something equally ridiculous.”
“Have you smuggled anything into China yet?”
