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Authors: Stel Pavlou

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“Gee, I don't know. Forward?” Sarah suggested, spotting a case with a small red cross marked on it, hanging on a far bulkhead. She got to her feet.
Matheson swerved the vehicle to avoid more disintegrating ice. And that was when he saw it. That familiar sky he'd seen only a few weeks before. Vast waving green fronds undulating and glowing across the darker regions of the atmosphere where charged particles from solar storms were caught in the magnetic field of the earth. The Aurora Australis.
Except this time the swirling green mass wasn't just swaying across the sky, it was actively gathering into a maelstrom that mimicked a twister. Like the ancient Chinese myths said—a giant two-headed snake was in a battle with the elements of wind and rain.
In a vast green funnel that appeared to undulate with eddies of magnetic flux, billions of tons of charged particles were swirling down to ground level and beyond, touching down in the distance and being transported the sixty or so miles from space down a tube that was constructed from the invisible forces of the will of the universe itself.
It was like a glowing umbilical connected to Mother Nature. And Atlantis was feeding.
“Holy Mother,” Matheson murmured. “I think I just found
Jung Chang.
”
 
It was a disturbing thing to discover there were no wing mirrors on Ski-Doos. And that it was impossible to judge just how close the enemy was when there were no images looming large within them. But glancing back over his shoulders just wasn't much of an option for Richard Scott. For one thing he was too scared, and for another the terrain was simply too uneven to allow him to take his eyes off it.
All he knew was, he was being shot at. A lot. And that
was enough. He could hear projectiles whizzing past his ear, was aware of Gant riding up in his periphery and heading off up front. When—
Wham!
The ground exploded in an incredible eruption of fire and ice so fierce it jolted the Ski-Doo, causing him to run pivoted on one track for a moment. Which was a stroke of luck for the simple reason that it caused him to run wide of the crater opening up before him and precipitating the creation of a mass of jagged fissures.
But just as Scott was getting a handle on his situation, one of the growing ice ravines took a sharp turn straight in front of him, causing the epigraphist to grind to a halt while he figured out a way through the maze. As he did so he took a quick look back.
And wished he hadn't.
A line of Chinese-manned Ski-Doos were bearing down on him leaving high plumes of snowy mist in their wakes while high above were aircraft. Firing.
“Jesus, what the hell are they doing?” the Professor shrieked, although it was obvious—they were trying to kill him.
Up ahead, where the anthropologist should have been traveling by now, the snow opened up into another fireball as the two sleek black attack helicopters let rip.
Scott cranked his machine up again, discovering to his horror that as the ice cracked up all around him he was in a race against time to beat a fissure out of the start blocks. As Scott raced along, so too did the crack in the ice. Deep and dark. Jagged and relentless. As it widened it released blinding steam, and Scott knew it was only a matter of time before the phenomenon changed course into his path and brought his journey to an abrupt end.
He shifted down a gear, giving the engine a kick and closed his eyes in hope as the fissure suddenly darted under his vehicle.
But nothing happened.
Miraculously the cracking ice didn't open up wide enough to swallow his vehicle whole, but his situation had not improved. For creeping up all around him were the shadows of the Chinese military …
Up ahead Scott spotted the APC swerving in and out of
ruts in the ice, while silhouetted against the swirling green plasma funnel, he could see its turret gun up on the roof.
Of course!
He swept his eye over the dash. Located the radio and thumbed: “Gant, can you hear me?” He saw Gant snatching up his own unit and responding. Good. They were on the same channel. “It's me, Scott! Tell somebody on that APC to man that turret gun! And show them how to use it,
fast
!”
 
Sarah rotated in the tiny, cramped turret seat, swinging the gun around to face the rear. There were little numbers stenciled all around the inside rim of the turret like on a clock. When she reached the number 6 she stopped.
She glanced back at Hackett who was tearing open a box of ammunition. “This is all we've got, so make it count,” he advised.
Sarah ignored him as she followed Gant's instructions on her headset. There was a flat oblong plate on the upper side of the weapon with two screw-like catches on either corner. She unfastened them quickly. Flipped it open to reveal a contraption on a hinge. She guessed this was where she put the bullets. Hackett handed her the chain of ammo, each around the size of a finger, and clipped the first round into the housing. She pushed the unit back in, fastened the plate and reported back to Gant.
“All right!” he shrieked in quick reply. “You're locked and loaded. Line 'em up in the cross-hair and keep both hands on the gun at all times. It's got a severe kickback. Less resistance on either grip and you're gonna wind up swinging yourself around.”
Sarah didn't wait for further instruction. Bringing the first helicopter up into full view she lined the sight. Squeezed the trigger.
And nothing happened.
“Shit! Have we got a jam? What's wrong with this thing!”
Hackett spied the gizmo at the side. “Safety! Let the safety off!”
Sarah felt like an idiot, reaching around the side and taking the catch off. She quickly brought herself back into alignment again.
And fired.
 
 
Scott whooped for joy as a stream of lead spat from the twin-barreled turret. It was like a blast of fire as every fifth bullet, a tracer round, lit up like a rocket guiding Sarah's aim. But despite the assistance she was still a lousy shot.
The helicopters dodged and weaved. The Ski-Doos split up and zigzagged. It slowed them down plenty but it was hardly going to cause them to turn back.
And then as suddenly as the firing had started, it spluttered to a stop. They'd run out of ammo. Looming up at them was the devastated remains of
Jung Chang.
They had arrived. Which was a problem because any moment now they would have to stop. And in so doing, they'd be sitting ducks. What the hell were they going to do? The pursuit of the Chinese military machine was relentless. They were getting closer every second.
Directly in front, the ground was opening up all around them. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. They were trapped.
In fact, what on earth were those sharp black protrusions rearing up out of the ice straight ahead? The APC had already rolled past them, but Scott was lagging far behind and by the time he reached them his path was blocked. Despondently he brought his Ski-Doo to a halt and raised his hands slowly.
He was staring down the barrel of a gun.
 
Facing what appeared to be a small mobile cannon, Scott gingerly got off his ride and tried not to make any sudden movements. There was no way he wanted to get shot again.
It appeared to be an automated device. Mounted on a long metal arm, it was attached to something hidden under the snow, while protruding from its side was a tiny camera. Obviously it was some kind of remote-controlled device.
As the drone of approaching vehicles grew ever more ominous behind him, the crackle of a speaker hissing to life from the machine was the last thing Scott expected.
In a tinny voice an American accent asked quickly: “Name?”
Scott was perplexed. “Uh, Scott,” he said. “Richard Scott. Linguist with the UN Inspection Team.”
Silence, followed by: “Oh, you're Scott. Would you mind ducking down, sir? Only you're in my line of fire.”
Scott didn't ask any further questions. Throwing his arms out he hit the deck as the device the gun was attached to rumbled and shook itself from under the snow.
All along the ridge on either side of Scott, similar machines were rearing up out of dugouts they had carved out of the snow and ice. There were around fifteen vehicles in all, like a line of miniature tanks. Essentially they were converted Yamaha Breeze “all terrain” buggies, with tracks in place of tires. They bristled with gadgets: high-powered zoom surveillance gear, thermal imaging equipment. They were well-equipped little machines. But it was their armory and their preparedness for war which was most impressive; their array of guns and missile launchers.
These machines were built for war. And on their sides they had written: SaRGE; the Surveillance and Reconnaissance Ground Equipment robot. They were the very latest in U.S. military remote warfare. And they had a bite like the enemy wouldn't believe.
These were what Gant and Dower had been talking about. The goddamn cavalry.
Servos whirred into life, targets were locked onto, weaponry was fired. And within a split second, under a barrage of sustained fire that loosed in a massive arc, one of the attack helicopters tumbled from the sky in a streaking fireball while the menacing Ski-Doos were thrown into disarray.
Then, while several units kept up the battering; other SaRGE units retargeted their sights. Having analyzed the geology of the situation, they fired at the ground some distance off, opening up a massive crescent-shaped rift in the crumbling ice that would require some terrific detour to bypass, or the construction of an artificial bridge.
The Chinese halted in their tracks, uncertain what to do next.
While Scott crawled behind the nearest SaRGE vehicle, and collapsed with relief.
[After years of studying complexity discovered] “It's very hard to do science on complex systems.”
 
Jack D. Cowan, Mathematical Biologist, University of Chicago,
Co-Founder of the Santa Fe Institute, 1995
“Captain, I'm getting something.”
It wasn't said with much force or forethought. Just with a plain frankness that had come to be expected aboard the 6,900-ton Los Angeles class nuclear attack sub.
Penoit was a quiet man. He was the type of skipper who said so little that when he did speak, his crew listened.
Ensign J. G. Will Timms awaited his captain's orders.
“Confirm,” was all he said.
They'd powered out to the coordinates at a full 20 knots, diving to her maximum depth, a mere 450 meters, en route. But the type of area of the Pacific they had been asked to investigate was at such a depth there was just no way they were ever going to get down that far. The pressure would crush them.
Instead what Penoit ordered was to bring
Jefferson City
to a full stop and extend her starboard Towed Array to its full 2,600-meter length. The submarine had a myriad of listening devices. Her sonar equipment, for example, was fitted in a forward array. But the Towed Array, like its name suggested, was dragged behind the vessel on a tether when the submarine was in hunter mode and seeking out enemy vessels.
By coming to a full stop the array had no other option but to sink like a plumb line. And in so doing, penetrate deep into the murky depths of the Pacific Ocean.
In the ocean, the speed of sound varied. Sometimes it was as much as 1,600 meters per second. Sometimes as little as 1,400 mps. The variables for affecting this speed were many, but three key features were primary determinates. Temperature, salinity and pressure. For every one degree Celsius sea temperature rise, the speed increased by 4.5 mps. For every percentage increase in salinity, thereby increasing density, the speed increased by 1.3 mps. For every 100 meters in depth, the speed increased by 1.7 mps.
So the primary controlling factor in this case was pure pressure. Beneath the upper oceanic layers, sound waves traveled like lightning in a bottle.
Timms held a hand to the cans on his ears and squinted, adjusted the output on his screen and gave his CO the thumbs-up. “Definitely, there's something there, sir,” he said.
“Any idea what it is?”
Timms adjusted the signal again. “I know what it's
not
, if that's any help.”
“What is it
not?”
“Well, it ain't whale song. It's too regular—too rhythmic. And it's entirely out of the range of human hearing. I've converted it up to a frequency I can hear. I can put it on speakers if you like, sir.”
Penoit nodded. Timms reached over and flipped a switch.
Several short pulses were heard, followed by a long burst. Over and over.
Several short pulses and a longer burst.
Timms took some more measurements. “It's a tubular wave, sir. It's traveling in a straight line. Very little dissipation. Heading north. This thing could go on for thousands of miles. Should I pass this on down the chain, Captain?”
Penoit nodded again, murmuring: “That's what they were looking for … Well, they were right.” Turning to his exec he ordered: “Rise to sixty feet. Up periscope and radio on down the chain. You have the bridge, Lieutenant.” He saluted back on his way out.
“What the hell is
that?
” asked the people gathered around the screens on the observation deck of the Conning Tower of the
USS Dolphin.
The direct video pictures coming in from the
Dolphin
's remote robotic submersible
Cousteau
were astounding.
Following the path of several rhythmic sonic streams,
Cousteau
had journeyed to a point three miles beneath the North Pole where the sound waves seemed to converge and where sunlight was a distant memory.
Specially fitted for deepwater acoustic research and nearbottom ocean surveys, the research submarine
Dolphin
was perhaps the best-placed vessel in the task force to study what she was studying.
Captain Rachel McNichol craned her neck. For on the screen were a series of pyramids, joined in a circular construction that seemed to stretch for hundreds of meters off into the darkness beyond the abilities of the vessel's searchlights and cameras to penetrate.
All five officers were with their captain, alongside all five scientists and a couple of the enlisted men. In short, the observation deck was crammed, and Captain McNichol was forced to raise her hand to keep the excited chatter to a minimum.
“Jesus Christ, what the fuck
is
that?!”
“Hold it down! Hold it down!” Rachel barked. “Jensen, can you get the computer to overlay an image of what exactly these sound waves are doing?”
Jensen got right on it and was surprised to discover that the mud and silt-covered constructs were: “Vibrating! They're vibrating! Captain, these things aren't just receiving signals, they're pulsing signals back down the same route.”
“How?”
Jensen shrugged. “Beats me. The best I can figure, ma'am, is that, y'know like on a stereo the main part of the speakers are made out of a paper cone? Well, these megaliths are acting in the same way, except instead of a paper cone—it's solid stone.”
Cousteau
inched forward, gliding over the geometric mounds and lumps. All showed as deep grays and blacks, until suddenly, rearing up out of the night was a whirlwind of shimmering water. In a column that seemed caught in the circular shape of the construction beneath it, the water twisted and sparked.
A quick-witted scientist punched in the command for the submersible to jerk to a halt, while the others, lost for words, simply let their jaws drop.
Rachel raked her fingers through her dark brown hair. “Send a pod up to the surface. Radio anybody camped out in the vicinity of the North Pole to up stakes and leave—
now.
”
“Captain,” Jensen reported back, “you're not gonna believe
these figures, but the water around these sonic streams is viscous, like it's turning solid.”
“The water?”
“Yes, ma'am. And it's heating up.”
“It's a network, Admiral.”
The lieutenant rolled the full color transparency out on the illuminated photographic bench and clipped it into place. A two-meter-square map of the world hot off the presses of the intelligence unit deep within the aircraft carrier.
The map showed precisely each and every sonic stream. Where they originated and where they were destined. Each stream was a bright red line, crisscrossing over the image from head to toe like those route maps airlines print in the back of their in-flight magazines.
“There are more than five sites, Admiral.”
Dower adjusted his spectacles as he perused the information carefully. “But there appear to be five central hubs, wouldn't you agree?”
“Oh yes, sir,” the officer backtracked. “Yes. There are five hubs. But there are at least a hundred other minor sites, each varying in size, which seem to be incorporated into this network.”
“What is it doing?”
“We have no idea.”
“Take one of these minor sites out of the equation. What would happen to the network then?”
The lieutenant shrugged. “Most probably, we figure, nothing. The sound waves would re-route themselves. Take one of the
hubs
out of the equation and well, that's a different story.”
Dower gave him that look which said he wanted more information and wasn't in the habit of having to ask for it.
“We reckon there's a fifty-fifty chance you could take one of four particular hubs out of the equation and the network
could sustain the damage. But … you take Atlantis out of the equation, and the whole thing collapses.”
“These are tubular waves? Self-contained?”
“Yes, sir. But should their angle be adjusted, so the waves move out in a normal fashion, in all directions, like the ripples from a stone tossed into a pond? Then there wouldn't be a square inch of the earth's oceans which wouldn't be affected by whatever signal is being pumped into it.
“Admiral, the oceans are being heated up. It's melting the ice caps. Perhaps this is what happened last time. Whatever civilization built these structures—and for whatever purpose—the side effect was that they drew power from the sun and pumped excess energy into the oceans, melting the poles and flooding the earth.”
“Contact Major Gant,” Dower ordered. “Tell him to prepare for detonation of the warhead.”
The first blocks were the most critical.
Cut to fit on three sides and shaped
in situ,
they determined the size and shape of an igloo. As more blocks of snow were piled on top and pounded sharply into place, the ice crystals eventually bonded like Superglue.
A finished igloo was one continuous spiral of snow blocks so strong a man could jump up and down on its roof. So flawless in design that the temperature on the inside reached 0 degrees Celsius when it was still minus 40 outside.
The igloo at
Jung Chang
was built by two Inuit brothers, engineers named Lei and Ham Kadloo who were flown into Anchorage at a moment's notice and given little time to familiarize themselves with the remote engineering arms and head-mounted view-screens that were connected via satellite to the SaRGE unit in Antarctica.
Richard Scott hobbled as he approached the frozen building. His leg throbbed deep from within so he tried to concentrate on other matters in an effort to ignore it. Like the
fact that so much snow really did sound like Styrofoam compacting underfoot.
Jung Chang
looked exactly as Bob Pearce had described except for one gigantic feature. Just past the charred and torn remains of the encampment, behind obliterated cabins and mangled machinery, the vast green and twisted umbilical cord of energy stretched down from the sky. Descending through a massive crater that seemed to have no bottom to it, the energy twister looked like some massive screw being twisted into the ice, perhaps by God himself.
There were lights glowing inside the igloo. And Scott could hear voices too, in English, using medical terminology.
But all he found when he stepped through the entrance was a bunch of machines operating on a bloody mess in the center. He took a step closer and found Bob Pearce stretched on the operating table. Remote SURGEon units worked tending his wounds. Remote-controlled arms sutured cuts. One mechanical hand gently dabbed away blood.
Bob Pearce raised his head and smiled thinly. “Uh, Richard, hi.”
Scott prised his frosted goggles from his face, breathless as he surveyed the procedure with incredulity.
“Lie still, Mr. Pearce,” one of the mechanical medics ordered. “We're not done yet. Hey, Nick, could you angle that light over here?”
“Sure.”
Another mechanical arm swung a halogen lamp out at a wound, while other arms continued to perform tasks. Their rack-mounted cameras turned briefly to eye Scott up and down, assessing his damage.
“How's the leg, Dr. Scott?”
“Sore. Who are you?”
“This is Captain Kit Preston, Naval Surgeon, Pensacola.”
A needle held between two metal fingers gave a little wave in between sewing maneuvers.
“I'm Mike Everty. Sheila, where are you?”
“Chicago, Mike.”
“What's the weather like up there?”
“Don't ask.”
Scott looked to Pearce. “They can feel what they're doing?”
“Two-way communications. The controls back in their surgeries give every sensation they'd experience if they were poking around inside my arm with their own fingers. Neat, huh?”
Scott was perplexed. “Weird.”
“You try lying here.”
“Where's everybody else?”
“Down below.”
Scott gave a shrug like: that's supposed to mean something? Pearce jerked his thumb at the hole in the ground behind him. There was a tunnel down through the ice.
“They're down there. With a Chinese soldier.”
“The one you remote-sensed?”
Pearce cracked a deflated smile. “Jesus, I think we got ourselves a true believer.”
“Stop moving,” one of the remotes ordered. “You want us to screw this up?”
Pearce ignored her. The igloo had been built as shelter for the Chinese soldier, he explained. Remote units had been sent in to secure the area and keep the man alive long enough to be interrogated. He was an invaluable resource, after all. He actually knew what to expect down there.
 
Scott was unsteady on the nylon rope ladder, but it was only a ten-foot drop. Sarah gave him a hand as he fumbled the last couple of rungs.
“Welcome to the party,” she said.
He was surprised to find another SURGEon unit down in the tunnel tending to the young Chinese man. He was propped up awkwardly against the ice tunnel wall and was nursing a steaming hot cup of coffee November had made for him.
Scott crouched down next to her. “He okay?”
“Seems that way.”
“Bob was right. Damn it, Bob was right.”
“So was Ralph,” Hackett smiled as he came over to welcome the anthropologist. “Glad to see you made it, Richard.” He jerked a thumb at Matheson, who had a radio to one ear.
He was farther on down the tunnel, where the ceiling had opened up in places to expose the sky. Reception was much better there. Ralph was listening to his radio while he drew lines all over a hastily sketched map of the earth in his notebook.
“That's the sound-wave network—sonic streams, stretching from continent to continent. It
does
exist. The Navy's picked up the pattern all over the planet. Dower just got a call in from the British. The
HMS Ocean,
and the
Illustrious
out on maneuvers, verified part of it.”
Scott glanced around. “Hey, where's Gant? He made it, didn't he?”
“Gant, Michaels and Hillman,” Sarah said. “They're all we got left. They're up ahead, exploring the tunnels. Trying to figure out a way down.”
Scott directed his attention back to the soldier.
“How you doing?”
he asked gently in Cantonese.
. The soldier didn't respond. Just sipped his coffee and ignored him, though something in his eyes indicated he understood. He wasn't a native Mandarin speaker.
Scott looked to November. “Real talkative, huh?”
“He kept saying
Yan Ning,
when we got here. Over and over.
Yan Ning.
Mean anything to you?”
“Yan Ning …
? That's not an expression. That's a name—a woman's name.”
“My girlfriend's name,” the compact little soldier suddenly piped up, struggling with his coffee.
“You speak English very well,” Scott remarked, introducing himself.
“I did not work for McDonald's in Beijing for two year before Army for nothing,” he replied, introducing himself as Private Chow Yun.
Scott glanced back at the others and shared a look. “Listen, we need your help, Yun. We need to know what's under the ice. We know there's a city, but we have no idea what kind of condition it's in. What's the layout?”
“That is not possible.”
“Listen, I just had a run-in with your comrades,” Scott snapped, fingering his leg wound. “I got shot, see? So I'm not in a real patient kinda mood.”
The soldier said nothing.
Scott scratched his face. Perhaps he should try another tack. Military code doubtless prevented the soldier from divulging any secrets. So delicately he asked: “Must miss your girlfriend, huh?”
“Yes,” the soldier replied nervously.
“I expect you'll be glad when this is all over and you can go back to her.”
“I can never go back to her. When I saw her down in the city …” he made eye-contact with Scott. So yes, there
was
a city. “When I saw her … It was very frightening.”
“I don't understand. She was down in the city?”
“Yes. Yan Ning was down in the city.”
“She a soldier too?”
“No. She is dead. Six month. But I saw her down there.”
 
“Okay, that's
not
what I wanted to hear,” Hackett commented sourly, turning away as Sarah made her way over. “And the dead shall rise again and walk the earth for the Day of Judgment? No. That definitely was not on my agenda for today.”
“You don't believe him?” Sarah asked, still watching Matheson continue sketching his lines all over his notebook.
“I didn't say I don't believe him,” Hackett corrected. “I just don't want to hear it.”
“What do you think he really saw? One of those Golems maybe—in the shape of his girlfriend?”
“What did it do? Read his mind?”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe not. Y'know, it just occurred to me, the four horsemen of the apocalypse could be earth, wind, fire and water. Earthquakes, hurricanes, volcanoes and floods.”
“There you go!” Sarah chided, almost amused, but trying to keep her voice down. “Now you're getting into the spirit of it.”
“You're not helping. You know that, don't you?”
Sarah smiled. Yes, she knew that. She turned to Matheson. “Ralph, how are we doing?”
Matheson adjusted the radio. Sketched another line. “At this rate I'm gonna run out of ink.”
“I meant globally. As a species.”
He took a deep breath. “At this rate,” he repeated, “I'm gonna run out of ink.”
Hackett sketched in the details. “Sea temperatures are rising fast. If we can't switch off whatever's down there, I think Ralph's going to be one of the first to help arm that bomb.”
 
“It Chinese tradition,” Yun was explaining, “the spirit of dead are malevolent. If you disturb their final resting place, they return to disturb
you.
We disturbed the burial site at Wupu, and the spirits brought retribution for that with storm and earthquake. That is why we could not allow anyone else to disturb Wupu. It has brought much danger. That is why your Rola Corporation was made to leave.”
“Then what led you to come here, to Antarctica?” Scott demanded.
“Because of the maps,” Yun replied matter-of-factly. Then, reading the puzzled expression on Scott's face: “The maps at Wupu. You know of the maps, no?”
Scott checked with his colleagues apprehensively. “No.”
Yun explained about the maps. And it fitted in precisely with what they had all been figuring out over the past few days. For at Wupu there were maps of the world etched into their crystal monuments, showing the links between ancient sites situated all over the planet. And the one in Antarctica was revered above all others.
It explained how Rola Corp. knew where to look so quickly.
“When we disturbed the spirits of Wupu, the spirits came back to haunt us. To disturb the spirits of Antarctica would be to disturb the spirits of the world. That, Dr. Scott, would be much retribution. We are not here because we think we own Atlantis. We are here to stop you from making a mistake.”
Scott hung his head in his hands and scrunched his fist into his hair. “Religions be damned!” He eyed the soldier firmly. Wildly. And in perfect Cantonese explained:
“Chow, I think it would be a mistake if we didn't go down there. You know what to expect. Come with us. Show us the way.”
Chow Yun looked away, ashamed and grave. “I will not go back,” he replied in English.
“We need your help.”
Yun sipped his coffee, finding it difficult to maintain direct eye-contact. It was not clear if they were going to get his help.
A clattering sound up ahead alerted them all to Gant approaching from around the corner of the ice tunnel stretched out before them. “People, clip on those spikes—we're moving out,” he ordered.
Yun looked up, startled. “What of me? You will keep me here?”
Gant shrugged. “You're free to go. In fact, I want you to relay a message to your people. We will have carried out our orders before you even have time to react.”
Scott expressed his concern with the others. He didn't like the sound of this. But his attention for the moment was still on Yun, trying to glean what information he could.
He sat down next to the soldier, pulled out his cleats and started fastening them into place. He kept his voice low so as not to embarrass the man. “Do you read much?” he asked simply.
“Of course.”
“I read. I read all the time. Anything really, comic strips to philosophy. I love words.” Yun remained silent. Uncertain as to where this was leading. “Ever read your Sun Tzu?”
“Sun Tzu,” Yun acknowledged.
“The Art of War.”
“Two-thousand-year-old Chinese tactical philosophy still read by politicians, business leaders and military strategists the world over. What did Sun Tzu say? Keep your enemies close by?” Yun nodded slowly. “The art of war is to adapt to what presents itself in battle. Your unit already failed the first test, and fired the first shots in battle. In panic your unit exposed its strengths and its weaknesses.”

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