2034: A Novel of the Next World War(27)

He was finished with his meal and on the cusp of a nap when the familiar pair of squirrels approached. He could feel the one, darker squirrel brush against his leg. When he opened his eyes, it was right there while the other, smaller squirrel, the female with the snow-white tail, lingered not far behind, watching. Farshad felt badly that he had no scrap of food to offer them. He brushed a few breadcrumbs off his shirt and placed them in his palm; it was the best he could do. The darker squirrel came closer than he had ever come before, perching on Farshad’s wrist while he dipped his head into Farshad’s cupped palm. Farshad was amazed. He didn’t think it possible that anything, particularly a squirrel, could be so unafraid of him, so trusting.

In his amazement, Farshad didn’t notice that the dark squirrel was hardly satisfied by meager crumbs. When the squirrel finished his little mouthful of food, he twitched his head toward Farshad and then, realizing that nothing else would be offered, sunk his teeth into Farshad’s palm.

Farshad didn’t flinch. He didn’t curse and drop the squirrel or clutch his palm to his chest. His reaction was different, but similarly reflexive. He snatched the dark squirrel around the body and squeezed. The squirrel’s mate, who had been waiting at a more cautious distance, began to run in frantic circles. Farshad squeezed harder. He couldn’t stop, even had he wanted to. And a part of him did want to stop, the same part of him that wanted to stay here, under this tree. Nevertheless, he squeezed so hard that his own blood, the blood from the bite, began to seep out from between his fingers. The dark squirrel’s body struggled and twitched.

Until it didn’t—until to Farshad it felt as though he were squeezing an empty sponge. He stood and dropped the dead squirrel by the roots of the tree.

Its mate ran to it and glanced up at Farshad, who looked over his shoulder in the direction from which he’d come. He walked slowly back to the house, back to the slip of paper with an address on it.



* * *





    06:37 April 23, 2034 (GMT+8)

Beijing

Lin Bao’s new job, as the deputy commander for naval operations to the Central Military Commission, was a bureaucratic morass. Although the ministry was on a war footing, it only increased the intensity and frequency of the interminable staff meetings he needed to attend. Lin Bao often saw Minister Chiang at these meetings, but the minister had never again brought up Lin Bao’s request for command of the Zheng He, let alone any command. And Lin Bao had no license to raise the topic. On the surface his job was suitable and important, but privately he sensed that he was a long way from a return to sea duty. Ever since the Zheng He Carrier Battle Group’s great victory over the Americans, a panic had begun to grow within Lin Bao.

He couldn’t pinpoint it to one thing, but rather to a collection of annoyances, the mundane trivialities that can, at times, make life unbearable. As the military attaché to the United States, his position had been singular and of the greatest import. Now, while his nation faced its greatest military crisis in a generation, he was stuck commuting each morning to the Defense Ministry. He no longer had the driver he’d enjoyed in Washington. When his wife needed the car to drop their daughter at school, he was forced to carpool into work. Sandwiched in the back seat of a minivan between two short officers who spoke of nothing but basketball and whose careers had dead-ended long ago, he could not imagine ever standing on the bridge of his own carrier.

These weeks had brought only exaltation for Ma Qiang. It had been announced that for his actions he would receive the Order of August First, the greatest possible military honor. Once the award was conferred on Ma Qiang, Lin Bao knew it was highly unlikely that he would ever take command of the Zheng He. Whatever disappointment he felt was, however, tempered by his appreciation that their recent undertaking against the Americans had initiated events beyond any one person’s control.

And so Lin Bao continued his staff work. He continued to carpool into the ministry with officers he deemed inferior to himself. He never again brought up his ambition for command to Minister Chiang, and he could feel the mundane ferocity of time passing. Until it was soon interrupted—as it always is—by an unanticipated event.

The unanticipated event was a phone call to Lin Bao that came in from the South Sea Fleet Headquarters in Zhanjiang. That morning, a reconnaissance drone had spotted “a significant American naval force” sailing southward at approximately twelve knots toward the Spratly Islands, along a route that was often used for their so-called “freedom of navigation patrols.” Immediately after the drone observed the American ships, communications between it and the South Sea Fleet Headquarters cut off. It was the commander of the South Sea Fleet himself who had contacted the Central Military Commission. His question was simple: should he risk sending out another drone?

Before Lin Bao could offer a thought on the matter, there was a slight commotion in his workspace as Minister Chiang entered. The mid-level officers and junior sailors who served as clerks sprung to attention as the minister breezed past them, while Lin Bao himself stood, clutching his telephone’s receiver. He began to explain the situation, but Minister Chiang raised his outstretched palm, as if to save him the trouble. He already knew about the drone and what it’d seen. And he already knew his response, snatching the telephone’s receiver so that now Lin Bao was only privy to one side of the conversation.

“Yes . . . yes . . .” muttered Minister Chiang impatiently into the line. “I’ve already received those reports.”