Flags of Sin - 05 Page 10

  Acton nodded. “Yes, but there’s more than one.” Two more shots snapped through the screams, then a burst of automatic gunfire. A flood of bodies rushed past them and Acton took the chance to pop up and examine their surroundings. The crowd had thinned enough that he could now see clear across the square. Bodies riddled the concrete, its gray stone stained with bright crimson, a sickening complement to the harsh red of the Chinese flags that ringed the park.

  More automatic gunfire.

  He turned slightly and could see three vehicles, one a limousine, stopped. Someone was on the hood of the limo, holding some type of machinegun against the windshield, firing.

  Then he noticed the flapping flags on the front corners of the hood. Stars and stripes, fluttering in the gentle breeze.

  “They’re American!” whispered Acton.

  “What?”

  Acton pointed toward the small convoy. “That’s a diplomatic vehicle.”

  Laura ventured a quick look then ducked as another shot rang out.

  “Stay here!” he said, then jumped up and sprinted along a row of trees housed in concrete planters, most hiding cowering tourists and locals.

  “James!” he heard Laura yell as he dove to the ground behind one of the planters, the trunk of the tree he had just passed exploding. He yelped in pain as something jabbed him in the forearm. He felt a pair of hands grab his shirt and pants, then haul him closer to the planter. He looked up to see a white man in his sixties staring down at him.

  “You okay?”

  Acton looked at his arm and saw a splinter from the exploding tree, several inches long, embedded in the skin, a trickle of blood rolling toward his elbow as he held the arm up. He reached to pull it out when the man slapped his hand away.

  “Let me look at that, I was a medic in ’Nam.” The man took Acton’s arm and examined the wound, then gently pulled the sliver out. “Not even half an inch in. You’ll live.”

  Acton smiled his thanks. “Stay down,” he said, then sprinted several more planters until he was near the road, less than thirty feet from the rear vehicle in the convoy. The opposite side of the planter exploded into a cloud of dust, the clap of the shot following close on its heels. Hugging the ground, he peeked around the planter at the black SUV behind the limo. Two men were huddled near the rear bumper, weapons drawn, taking occasional glances at the limo, with apparently no idea where the snipers were located.

  Another hit to his planter, and the tree it contained collapsed, the entire root system shattered. What the hell am I doing? It had been instinct to run toward the gunfire, to help his fellow Americans, but it was also idiocy. He had no body armor, no weapons, nothing. What did he expect to do? Give the snipers a good stern look with a wagging finger through their scopes?

  Peering around the planter he watched as one of the men hiding behind the rear vehicle took a bead on something in the distance, and opened fire, rapidly emptying his clip. Acton took the opportunity to stick his head out a little further to see what he was aiming at. It was a van, parked at the far end of the square, perpendicular to the road where the targeted vehicles were. Its side door was opened, revealing nothing but a dark interior from this distance. A muzzle flash briefly illuminated the interior and a moment later the security agent blew past Acton’s position, a gaping hole in his chest.

  And his weapon clattered within reaching distance of Acton’s position.

  But completely in the open.

  His hand darted out but another crack of the sniper rifle and he jumped back. He peered around the corner, and found the remaining agent behind the rear SUV had taken up his now dead partner’s position. The gunman that had been standing on the hood of the limo was down, apparently shot by one of the security personnel, which meant there was still hope for those inside.

  He heard the pounding of boots closing in from behind him, and turned to look. Five Chinese soldiers, in their winter gear, Type 80 machine pistols at the ready. They’re going to get themselves killed!

  “Get down!” he yelled, waving his hand toward the ground. But they kept coming, at a crouch. Acton looked into the eyes of one, determination on his face, the dedicated soldier rushing toward the danger, not away from it, to try and save his fellow citizens. Then the eyes widened, their expression turning to fear, and pain, as a hole blasted through his chest and sent him flying away from Acton’s position, as if a cable had yanked him back to where he had just come.

  His comrades continued their charge as the crack from the first shot was heard, then a second of the small unit was hit, splitting him in two, sending the top half of his body tumbling away. Acton didn’t want to look, but he couldn’t help it. He continued to yell for them to get down, but they kept charging, as if automatons following an order regardless of the consequences.

  Two finally heeded his warning, dropping to the ground, the third began, but was hit in mid-fall, his head seeming to disappear into his torso for a moment, before he dropped like a sack of potatoes in a heap. Acton tore his eyes away from the sickening site, and urged the two soldiers forward, waving to them as they lay frozen on the ground, the fear the situation accorded showing in their eyes.

  “Come on!” he yelled, and one of them finally looked at him, then started to crawl toward his position, soon followed by his partner. Two more shots ripped across the square, one hitting his planter, the other impacting directly in front of one of the soldiers, the concrete exploding in his face, his cry revealing the pain he was now in.

  He stopped, grabbing his face.

  Something in Chinese was yelled by his uninjured partner, who turned back and grabbed him by the jacket, pulling him forward. The man began moving forward again, his eyes squeezed shut, his face covered in blood.

  As they neared, Acton scrambled out the few remaining feet and grabbed the other shoulder of the wounded man, and pulled him to safety. All three of them lay gasping for breath, their heads against the concrete of the planter, their legs curled to the side, trying to keep as little as they could exposed.

  Something moved out of the corner of Acton’s eye and his head whipped around to see the old medic crawling toward their position.

  “Stop!” yelled Acton. “We’re pinned down here!”

  The old man shook his head. “Covering fire!”

  Acton looked at the wounded man, gasping in pain, shards of concrete protruding from his face. If the vet was determined to help, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop him. But how to help him?

  “Do you speak English?” he asked the soldier beside him.

  “No.”

  Well, you obviously speak some.

  Acton pointed at the vet, jabbing the air with each syllable. “Doc-tor. Do you understand? Doc-tor.”

  The young man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, raised himself slightly to look over Acton’s chest then dropped back down.

  “Doc-tor,” he repeated. “Understand.”

  “Good. We need covering fire”—Acton made hand motions indicating machinegun fire—“over that way”—he jerked his thumb over their heads, toward the van he had spotted earlier—“so doc-tor can come”—fingers walking on palm.

  The man nodded and rolled over onto his stomach. Acton patted him on the back to get his attention.

  “Shoot”—machinegun motions—“the van”—steering wheel motions, then finger jabs in the direction.

  The young soldier poked his head up, then dropped down again, nodding. “Understand.”

  Acton turned his head toward the vet. “Ready?”

  The vet was hiding behind an untouched planter. “Ready!”

  Acton slapped the soldier on the back and he rose to one knee, squeezing the trigger. The distinct sound of the Type 80, so different from the American made weapons he was used to firing, rattled in his ear. He flipped over to his side as the old man struggled to his feet then stumbled toward their position. In his attempt to keep low, he never succeeded in gaining his balance, and tumbled to the ground several f
eet away, completely in the open.

  “Shit!” Acton jumped up and rushed over to the man and grabbed him by the collar, hauling his heavy frame to cover, as the last of the young soldier’s clip was emptied.

  They all dropped to the ground, Acton gasping from the exhaustion of hauling the two-hundred-plus-pound man, the soldier reloading, and the sack of heroism that had just been hauled to safety rolled beside the wounded soldier, lying at his side, expertly extracting the shrapnel from the poor kid’s face, the vet’s obvious experience shining through.

  “Get me his weapon,” said Acton.

  “Paul.”

  “Huh?”

  “Paul Burns,” said the vet as he removed the weapon from the young man’s hands, whispering to him reassuringly. “Here.”

  Acton took the weapon. “James Acton.”

  “Why does that sound familiar?”

  “No idea,” lied Acton. With the shit he and Laura had been through the past couple of years, they now had followers on the Internet. They were part of conspiracy theories, fan clubs, Facebook pages, Twitter feeds. He was now his own verb amongst his students, and if what was going on right now wasn’t being “Actoned”, he didn’t know what would qualify. He and Laura tried to ignore it the best they could, but apparently more than just their classes were popular.

  He rolled over onto his stomach and looked at the other soldier as two shots slammed into their planter.

  “We can’t stay here!” yelled Acton, pointing at the ground and shaking his head. “We have to move!” Finger walking.

  The man nodded.

  Acton raised a finger. “Wait!” He rolled over the surprised Chinese soldier, and poked his head out so he could see the security agent.

  “Hey! You!” he yelled.

  The man looked for the voice.

  “Behind the tree!”

  The man made eye contact with Acton.

  “Where’s the second shooter?” yelled Acton.

  “One’s in the van!” yelled the man, “end of the square. Scope glare from that roof!” he yelled, pointing at the top of Mao Zedong’s tomb to the south of their position.

  Acton looked at the soldier. “Two shooters”—he held up two fingers—“one in the van”—he pointed—“one on the roof over there!” The young man’s eyes opened wide at that, it obvious he didn’t want to fire on the revered man’s tomb.

  The young soldier flipped on his back and seemed to think for a moment, then his eyes shot open and he smiled. He reached down and pulled a radio off his partner’s belt, and rapid fired some Chinese into it. A few moments later there was a reply, then a quick exchange. He dropped the radio and looked at Acton.

  “Help coming.”

  Acton patted him on the shoulder. “Your English is just fine,” he said, smiling.

  The young man nodded with a grin, then pointed.

  “Look!”

  Acton’s eyes followed where the soldier was pointing, and he could see an armored vehicle racing down the street south of their position, between the square and the tomb. Suddenly the hood blew off and steam billowed from the now exposed engine. The vehicle careened to a halt as a platoon of soldiers jumped out, racing toward the second shooter’s position, pouring fire on the roof. Acton and the soldier jumped up and began firing on the van across the square. Their shots were true, as dark gray pockmarks appeared in the white van’s paint job.

  Suddenly the door to the van slammed shut, and it sped away. Acton rushed toward the rear SUV as the Chinese platoon continued to advance, and much to Acton’s relief, were joined by several more vehicles filled with soldiers. He slammed into the side of the SUV, along with his companion.

  “Are you okay?” asked Acton.

  “Yeah. Who the hell are you?”

  “Just a tourist.”

  “Buddy, you can travel with me any day.”

  Acton chuckled. “Let’s check on your limo.”

  The three of them rushed forward, their eyes fixed on the roof of the building they hoped contained the only remaining shooter, and reached the side of the limo. The rear passenger side window was down.

  “Anybody alive in there?” yelled the agent.

  There was silence.

  “We’re American!” yelled Acton. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes! Yes! Jesus Christ, yes!” yelled a voice, shaking but sounding relieved.

  “Is that you, Mr. Redford?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Special Agent Danson. Is the Ambassador okay?”

  There was a pause and Danson was about to repeat the question when the terrified voice inside finally replied. “N-no, he’s—he’s gone!”

  Danson’s eyes narrowed. “Gone? As in dead?”

  “No, gone as in they took him!”

  Danson frowned. “Okay, sit tight. You’re safe where you are. Once the situation is secure, we’ll get you out of there. What about the driver and agent—”

  “Dead!” The voice was almost a scream.

  “Okay, keep it together, Mr. Redford. It’s almost over. The gunfire you hear is Chinese soldiers getting the last of the gunmen.” As he said the words the gunfire stopped. Acton looked up from the side of the car toward the roof across the street, and saw several Chinese soldiers waving to their comrades below.

  Their companion yelled at a new batch of soldiers, who came running toward their position, guns raised, and within seconds Acton and Special Agent Danson were surrounded by at least a dozen men, their weapons dangerously close. The soldier with Acton waved them down, rapid firing something in Chinese, and Acton swore he would learn the language the first chance he got.

  Weapons lowered, Acton flashed as friendly a smile as he could as he placed his own weapon to the ground, Danson doing the same.

  “I tell them you help me.” The words were slow, halting; the accent thick. Acton held out his hand to his new friend.

  “James Acton. Call me ‘James’.”

  The man smiled. “Tau Jié.”

  The weapons at their feet were retrieved and the soldiers took up covering positions as Acton began to breathe a bit easier.

  “James!”

  Acton looked toward the unmistakable voice and his heart leapt into his throat as several weapons were pointed at the approaching Laura.

  “She’s with me,” said Acton quickly, and his new friend Tau said something to his fellow soldiers that calmed them.

  Somebody yelled from their former hiding place, and Acton looked over to find several guns pointed at their medic. Tau immediately ran over, yelling, and the weapons were lowered.

  Laura reached the limo and threw her arms around Acton. “Thank God you’re okay!” she exclaimed, then, pushing him away, admonished, “What in blazes were you thinking?”

  Acton pulled her back into his arms, holding her tight, his chin resting on the top of her head.

  “I have no idea.”

  Gate of Eternal Peace, The Forbidden City, Beijing, China

  October 1, 1949

  Li Mei sat, hands clasped in her lap, smiling, her chest swelling with pride. The voice booming from the tiny radio at her side, the distinct, thick, Hunan accent of her grandson boldly proclaiming to a crowd of nearly one million, to a nation of seven hundred million, and to a world that would eventually tremble at the feet of her glorious nation, that China was back. No longer subjugated by the imperial powers of Europe, Japan, Russia or America.

  The Chinese people have stood up.

  “The Chinese people have rich experience in overcoming difficulties. If our forefathers, and we also, could weather long years of extreme difficulty and defeat powerful domestic and foreign reactionaries, why can't we now, after victory, build a prosperous and flourishing country? As long as we keep to our style of plain living and hard struggle, as long as we stand united and as long as we persist in the people's democratic dictatorship and unite with our foreign friends, we shall be able to win speedy victory on the economic front.”

  She smiled. Tho
ugh uneducated, even she understood the irony of a democratic dictatorship. But only she knew the truth of what had really happened. Though China now had a new flag, five stars on a sea of red, its true flag, its secret flag, remained gold, with a blue dragon.

  For today, the Emperor’s grandson had taken his rightful place on the throne.

  “An upsurge in economic construction is bound to be followed by an upsurge of construction in the cultural sphere. The era in which the Chinese people were regarded as uncivilized is now ended. We shall emerge in the world as a nation with an advanced culture.”

  She could feel herself grow tired. It had been a heady day. She had been whisked from her farm several days ago by government troops, and brought to this room near the Forbidden City, and left to wait, with no word as to why she had been brought here, or by whom.

  But the view from her small room filled her with conflicting emotions. The memories of her childhood in the Forbidden City, that fateful day when they had been betrayed, the promise made, the promise finally kept. A lifelong mission was over, a mission she had thought impossible to fulfill at one time, but for the single-mindedness of a grandson she never thought had it in him.

  She closed her eyes as she listened to his voice, hollowed out by the poor quality of the speaker in her radio, but nevertheless, distinctly his. And with each pause, the shouts of a million voices, their fists raised in joy, their hands pumping the air with the knowledge that once again they were led by one man, one dictator, one Emperor, who would ensure they remained on the right path, a path to greatness.

  “Our national defense will be consolidated and no imperialists will ever again be allowed to invade our land. Our people's armed forces must be maintained and developed with the heroic and steeled People's Liberation Army as the foundation. We will have not only a powerful army but also a powerful air force and a powerful navy.”

  China had been invaded far too often for a country with history that extended beyond what most of their conquerors could claim. It had lost its way, but once it had rebuilt, even if it took a century, the world would tremble in fear, for the dragon had reawakened, freed from the boot of imperialist oppression, and eager to reclaim its rightful place of dominance in the world.