Ian Slater: Force of Arms

Though not alone — the two public security men assigned to protect him only a few yards back — he made his way east, crossing Beichang Street, reaching the seven bridges that spanned the green-algae-covered moat before the Tiananmen Gate atop which Mao had proclaimed the People’s Republic of China on October 1, 1949. Seeing the five entrances to the gate closed, Cheng paused, perplexed for a moment, until he remembered it was Monday. He took the absence of tourists as a good omen, as he, and shortly after, the two public security men, slipped through one of the side gates into the Forbidden City.

He understood, as did every member of the Party, that the Forbidden City was but the remains of the most degenerate exploiters of the Chinese people, but, despite the fact that his commitment to Marxism-Leninism was as strong as ever, Cheng felt within the Forbidden City something he could not experience anywhere else. Standing silently before the five marble bridges that crossed the tartar-bow-shaped Golden Water Stream that led to the Gate of Supreme Harmony, the city’s noise muffled by the great walls, he felt a serenity that transcended all thought, all cares — the kind of feeling his great-grandmother spoke about whenever she would return from the Christian temples with all their candles and their liberal bourgeois hogwash. It was the kind of calm he needed in order to consolidate his Tai — so that all his psychic and physical energy could be used to destroy his enemies.

Near Huade, 160 miles northwest of Beijing, on the road between Shangdu and Orgon Tal, the three-man Huade cell of the June Fourth Democracy Movement had made their decision. They would march the forty-three miles due west through the desert toward their truce line and blow the main line at a point twelve miles south of the Genghis Khan Wall, not the Great Wall, outside Tomortei and so wreck the line along which Cheng was rushing PLA divisions to Orgon Tal to bolster up Beijing’s northwestern defense sector.

They took C4 plastique and an acid ampule charge initiator for a delayed explosion. By the time they reached the tracks the huge China sun had turned bloodred because of the dust coming down from the Gobi to the north where the Americans were on the edge of the northern plain. One of the three saboteurs molded the Play-Doh-like plastique into the concave groove of the rail and tapped a block of wood cut to fit after it to help direct the blast more toward the steel rail. Next he took an oil rag around his right hand, felt for the delay-pencil charge initiator, and broke its glass ampule at one end, releasing the acid that would eat away the anchor of the spring firing pin. When the acid had eaten through in about ten minutes, the firing pin would be released, slamming into the percussion cap and lighting the fuse.

By the time it would blow they would be well clear of the DMZ. At least that was the theory. They knew that whether the explosion blew out a section of track or not, their attack alone might presage a massive exchange between the U.S. Second Army and the PLA, and this was precisely their purpose.

In Huade, from whence they’d come, a “neighborhood watch” was in progress. Such watches were not just for thieves but for anyone who, in the opinion of the jiedao zheanyuan —”red grannies”—was not living up to the accords of Chairman Nie. Curfew was at nine o’clock, and by the time the three saboteurs headed back they had already been missed by the red grannies, the old women who proudly wore the bloodred party armbands and waved the party rule book — who knew everyone hr the neighborhood, who was having a second child in violation of the party policy, who was having an affair with whom, and who was missing curfew. Public security was called when the three young men had not returned by the curfew. The three terrified families were questioned by the same interrogator, and none of their stories agreed. One family said their boy had taken ill while visiting an uncle in Shangdu. A second family pleaded that their son had gone for a walk and obviously forgotten the time. The third family, simply too tired to say anything specific, threw up their hands in desperation and said quite truthfully that they had no idea where their son was or what he was doing.

“He’s a counterrevolutionary!” one of the old women charged, her bony finger shaking at the family in her excitement “Always thumbing his nose at the authorities. He listens to Cui Jian,” a second said, making disgusted noises with her tongue.

The Public Security man stationed two PLA soldiers with AK-47s with each of the three families and told them to cut the throat of anyone who gave the slightest warning to the boys upon the youngsters’ return.

Rosemary was walking along the glittering aisles of the base PX, wonderstruck again at the sheer variety of goods. She started counting the different kinds of cereal but soon gave up. If submariners were the best-fed people in the navy, their families also had a cornucopia of goods to choose from.

For Rosemary, the two things the Americans got absolutely right were the supermarkets and the opulence of an American bar — not that she’d made a detailed study of the latter. What she didn’t like, however, was after dark. Rationally she knew that it couldn’t be as bad as the murder and mayhem depicted every night on television, but as she would soon discover, many other women, especially the wives of COs and XOs, remained on guard. And the worst of it was that they couldn’t really talk about it. The navy hadn’t muzzled them, but like all good submariners— except for that bastard Walker who had sold so many U.S. secrets to the Soviets — the women were as silent about navy matters as their men aboard the subs were. The navy, the Tail Hook scandal of the nineties notwithstanding, took pride in fixing their own problems within the family and in any case had made the point that if the matter of “foreign operatives,” as they preferred to call the Chinese Gong An Bu, were to hit any of the newspapers — particularly the La Roche tabloids — the whole thing would be blown out of proportion and only sow exactly the kind of panic the Chinese wanted to produce.

Besides, there was a reluctance on the part of the navy sub wives to gab, because quite frankly they thought their menfolk on the subs were a cut above regular fleet navy, and they didn’t want to seem to be like some Tail Hook whiner. The best protection, they thought, was not to talk about “foreign operatives,” especially since now there was a truce and things had quieted down over in~ China. Besides, if they felt they had to talk about it they could always seek out the other wives and girlfriends — keep it in the family.

Andrea Rolston, wife of Robert Brentwood’s executive officer, saw Rosemary wheeling her cart past the cold beer fridges, the Englishwoman agog at the variety of malts and lagers.

“Rosemary!”

Startled, Rosemary turned to see Andrea Rolston waving at her from frozen meats like a long-lost friend, though they’d met for the first time only three days before. She liked the Americans’ informality, their natural friendliness, but with her background as a schoolteacher in Surrey she found the Americans’ gregariousness difficult to emulate — it was all a little overwhelming.

“Rosemary, you’re just the one I was looking for!”

“Oh—”

“Yes. Now tell me, you got yourself a gun?”

Instinctively Rosemary wanted to say no, but the truth was Robert, albeit reluctantly, had left a .45 in the dresser drawer. He had taken her out to the small-arms range and had her fire it, but the noise even with the ear protectors and the shock of what she called the gun’s “jump” alarmed her far more than the prospect of anyone breaking and entering.