No!
Jia thought. But the man was gone. A few people were picking themselves up inside the pit, yet most of the other survivors seemed to be on the shattered floor above. He couldn’t immediately count on them for help.
“Bu?” he yelled. “Bu, can you hear me!?”
Everywhere the collapsed walls formed barriers and unstable pockets, any of which could be hiding the other man. The voices were an obstacle of another kind, making it difficult to hear.
“Bu! Sergeant Bu!” His voice rose.
“Answer me!”
Later, Jia would learn that a pair of Minuteman ICBMs had detonated on either side of the Los Angeles sprawl, bracketing the city on its northeast and southeast borders. The yield of these warheads was only one megaton each—the Americans had tried to limit the danger of fallout to themselves—yet that was several times the strength of the first atomic bomb used in Hiroshima. Worse, the two blasts slammed together with gale-force winds.
At the same time, other missiles hit Oahu and Hawaii, which the Russians and the Chinese both used as staging grounds. These strikes might also have been a signal, walking the devastation out into the Pacific, like a feint toward China. Much closer, more warheads detonated in Santa Barbara, Oceanside, and San Diego. The Americans also destroyed the three large military bases far inland among the Mojave Desert, where the Chinese kept most of their aircraft—but there were no strikes on mainland China itself. The American launch was precise. Possibly they no longer had enough operational silos for a larger response.
For now, Jia knew only his private horror. He clawed at a snarl of wreckage with both hands, ignoring the bolt of agony through his forearm. There was blood in the gray dust. So much blood.
“Sergeant!” he yelled.
He found a naked foot. It was crushed and bent, and yet Jia felt relief. His thoughts were still divorced from him, but he couldn’t imagine how Bu would have lost his boot, much less his sock. This was someone else, a man who’d been sleeping in their barracks overhead.
Jia kept moving. The ground was a strange up-and-down ruin. Most of the dunes gave way beneath his feet. His instinct was to shy away from the larger slabs, but he ducked his head beneath them nonetheless, calling for the other man.
“Bu! Sergeant Bu!”
He found a live wire sparking in the rubble. He walked across a slew of ghosts made of empty clothes. Then he jumped when another survivor limped out of the dust abruptly like one of the ghosts come to life.
“You!” Jia shouted. “Help me. We’re looking for a Second Department noncom in—”
The man didn’t respond, shambling away. Was he deaf? There was blood in his hair, so Jia let him go. He’d heard someone else groan and he followed the sound, pushing his way past a massive hunk of concrete.
Bu Xiaowen lay beyond it. Each breath was a strained rasp. He was bent and gray with dust, but Jia recognized the other man’s voice even in this extreme. He ran to him, stumbling once and jamming his fractured arm. “Bu,” he said, marveling that they could have been so widely separated by the quake. They were together now. Jia felt himself awaken at last. The emotions in him were terrible—and honest—as he laid his hand on Bu’s cheek, assessing his lover’s airways. Bu’s mouth looked clear of gravel or loose teeth. That was good, but Jia could see that he was seriously injured.
“I can‘t,” Bu groaned. “I can’t feel ...”
“Hold still. I’m here. Just hold still. We’ll get you out as soon as we can,” Jia said, promising something that he had no right to guarantee. Bu’s throat was mashed and swollen. His left arm twisted away from his body like a dead thing. Jia thought he must have been rolled beneath the nearest debris, a tangle of concrete and rebar. One of the steel rods had punctured Bu’s leg, spurting blood through the dust.
Jia clamped his good hand down on the calf wound. Mastering the pain in his other arm, he took off his gun belt and wrapped it twice below Bu’s knee before cinching the buckle tight. Then he turned and began to open his lover’s shirt.
“The roof,” Bu groaned. “What . . .”
“Quiet now. Breathe. Listen to me. Just breathe. The base was hit, but we’re going to be okay.”
Bu’s collarbone had come through his skin. His lung was surely punctured, perhaps in several places. That was why he couldn’t get enough air, and Jia was unsure if mouth-to-mouth resuscitation would help.
What can I do?
he thought, when really there was a different question he needed to ask himself.
What have I done?
All of his certainty from last night gave way to blame and guilt. He had been so aggressive in lobbying to attack the Americans. Perhaps it wouldn’t have happened without him. There were other men with ambition, but his circumstances were unique. Perhaps another officer wouldn’t have rushed to prove himself. What if they’d waited until the mind plague was even more virulent? The Americans might never had survived long enough to fight back, and the war would truly have been one-sided.
Jia grimaced through a mask of tears. Then he leaned down to Bu’s dazed, pale face. He didn’t want this kiss to be farewell, but, more than anything, he didn’t want Bu to die without feeling their love again.
Bu was still very confused, but his lips opened to Jia’s. They shared this tiny warmth. There was a rattle of someone’s boots in the debris and Jia jerked his head up from the other man.
Dongmei stood on the other side of the gray dunes. Her uniform was cleaner than either Jia’s or Bu‘s, and she held a canteen and a small pouch of medical supplies. She was lovely, like an angel. Her readiness was only what Jia would have expected—but while her broad hips were poised to continue forward, the rest of her body seemed unsure. She leaned slightly to one side as if to turn and run.
She gaped at them, open-mouthed.
Jia stared back at her, not believing his bad luck. The women’s barracks were set away from the basement. Dongmei had escaped the bombing. Then she’d either climbed into the pit or even jumped down to help. She was a good soldier. She might have run into danger entirely by herself without an officer to direct her.
Jia saw his own choice as other people shouted behind Dongmei. There was no way to silence her without the risk of being discovered, not even if he used his hands instead of his pistol. First he would need to chase her, and Dongmei was thirty meters away. It also sounded as if more troops were entering the pit to look for survivors.
They would need leadership. His role would be even more essential now than ever, especially if the command center was gone. That responsibility was greater to him than anything else and Jia scrubbed at his damp eyes, smearing one cheek with his grime-ridden hand.
“He can’t breathe,” Jia said, pretending he had been trying to give Bu mouth-to-mouth. “His neck. His ribs.”
“I, I,” Dongmei stammered.
“Is there a bag and mask in your kit? His leg is cut, too. Are there medics?”
The fear in her round face was disarming, even juvenile. It was the look of a young woman confronted with monsters she’d never believed were real. Could she genuinely be that innocent? Or was she so scared because she admired him and didn’t know how to process his homosexuality?
“Lieutenant Cheng!” he barked. “Are there medics?”
Dongmei seemed to grasp at the familiar tone, recovering herself at last. “No, sir,” she said. “Not down here. Captain Ge told some of us to help—”
They probably sent only the weakest ones,
Jia thought,
the women and the walking wounded. Let the injured take care of the injured.
It was cruel, but he approved. If there were still operational crews overhead, they would be impossibly busy as they tried to meet the American offensive.
Who was in charge? General Zheng? How many officers had been killed when the base collapsed?
“Sir,” Bu groaned. “Sir, I can’t ...”
“Come here,” Jia called to Dongmei, drowning out his lover’s voice. What if Bu Xiaowen said the wrong thing? “Take over,” Jia said. “Keep him stabilized. I need to get upstairs, but we never leave one of the People’s Heroes behind. This man deserves all the help we can give.”
Dongmei nodded, and Jia thought he saw a new uncertainty in her expression. She was beginning to doubt what she’d seen. That was good. But it wasn’t enough.
He couldn’t leave her alone with Bu.
As she picked her way through the rubble, Jia bent down to the other man again. He’d made his decision. There had always been two of him, the soldier and the man, and it was the soldier who must win over his secret, more gentle self.
“I love you,” he murmured.
Bu misunderstood, groggy with pain and shock. “Sir?” he rasped. Then he smiled. “Sir, we shouldn’t ...”
Jia clamped his good hand over Bu’s nose and mouth, hiding this action as best he could from Dongmei with his own face. Bu stiffened beneath him. He was too weak to fight. His hips moved but the injuries throughout his chest must have been an agony even worse than smothering. He tried to bite, too. Jia clamped Bu’s jaw shut, smashing his lips. Bent close to Bu’s face, Jia shut his eyes to block out the sight of his lover’s bulging eyes.
Dongmei hesitated again a few paces from them. Jia had forgotten to pretend to be lifting his head for air and exhaling into Bu’s mouth. Maybe she’d also seen Bu’s face, blotched red from popping capillaries.
Then it was done. Jia didn’t look at the body as he stood up. He was afraid he might start crying again if he did.
“He’s dead,” Jia said, putting too much emphasis on his first word. It might have sounded like an innocent thing to say, except that she’d just seen him commit murder.
“I ... Yes, sir,” Dongmei said. Her eyes were solemn and clear, but was there a quaver in her voice?
Jia could not wait or give her a later opportunity. He needed to trust Dongmei, so he said everything he knew to prove himself to her. “The most important thing is to bring everyone together again and take command. We need to be sure we’re protected against more attacks, and our team will be critical in following the nanotech. Show me how you got down here. Is there a ladder?”
“Yes, sir. We used ropes, sir. I think I got down over there,” Dongmei said, pointing back to her right. She wouldn’t confront him now.
But would she eventually betray him?
Jia strangled her, too, throwing himself on top of the young woman in a grotesque masquerade of intercourse, driving his legs between hers and shoving his arms up through Dongmei’s flailing hands to her neck, using his weight to hold her down against the rubble. She was his friend and an excellent soldier, but China needed him. It was the best he could do for his country. It was his duty.
When she was dead, Jia surveyed the wreckage. He dragged Dongmei away from Bu and pulled judiciously at a length of rebar, bringing an avalanche across her face and torso. If there was an autopsy, her neck wounds would be obvious, but Jia knew the survivors were too busy to make time for a criminal investigation.
He stalked away. And when he found his way through the dust and carnage to the rescue teams, no one questioned the bloody slash she’d left on his forehead or the cold, seething fury in his eyes. They helped him up a rope ladder to the second floor. Two medics tried to assess his wounds, abandoning more badly wounded soldiers in favor of him, but Jia brushed them off. “Tend to our Heroes,” he said.
“Colonel!” a man called. “Colonel!” It was an Air Force lieutenant whom Jia recognized, although he couldn’t remember the man’s name.
“Report,” Jia said.
“Casualties are overwhelming, sir! Most of the base is gone, sir! I can’t raise anyone else on the radio and Captain Ge said it looks like the whole city is gone!”
The young man was hysterical, but his reaction only seemed to increase Jia’s self-possession. “Where are Generals Zheng and Shui?” he asked.
“I don’t know, sir! You are the most senior officer I’ve found, sir! We’ve been trying to organize our rescue efforts—”
“You’ve done well, but we need to reestablish communications both here and with the mainland. I need to know how badly we were attacked and what assets we have available. Especially our Air Force, lieutenant.” Jia clapped him on the arm paternally and saw his own steadiness register in the lieutenant’s expression—steadiness and gratitude—and he was glad somewhere beneath his rage.
Jia Yuanjun would hit the Americans with everything left at his command.
17
Cam was no longer
sure where to go, but their first priority hadn’t changed. Protect Ruth. Survive. He led the women east into a narrow valley because he wanted to get out of the line of sight of any more nuclear flashes. They also needed to stay out of the wind, although he was glad for it. The breeze would be spotted with nanotech, but it might also keep the towering black clouds in the east from collapsing across them with radioactive dust. His most distant landmarks were already gone, the snow-white peaks absorbed by the storm.
“Wait,” Ingrid said. “Please.”
They were walking single file with Cam in front. He glanced back. Ingrid was favoring her right leg, and he worried that she’d turned her ankle among the immature aspen and crumbling granite shale.
“Keep going,” he said to Ruth. “We’ll catch up.”
“No.”
“I’ll carry her if I have to—”
“No. We stay together. I need a minute on my computer anyway.”
He couldn’t see her face because of her goggles and mask, but the stubborn way she’d lifted her chin was enough. What could he do? There wasn’t time to argue, and, as Cam wrestled with himself, trying to find some way to outsmart her, Ruth unslung her carbine and her backpack. Then she knelt and opened the pack.
